reading response

profilehao272
No_no_Boy.pdf

This is a reproduction of a library book that was digitized by Google as part of an ongoing effort to preserve the information in books and make it universally accessible.

https://books.google.com

||

U-----

|

-

-

-

-

-

-

- - -

-

-

- -

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

|

-

, .

| - |

| - | - -

|

- |

-

|

-

-

|

-

|

-

-

·

|

-

-

-

-

| - |

- | - |

| - |

| | - -

| ( )

--

- - - - - - - - - - --

--

-

-

-

--

º

Novel BY JO

C HA R LE S Ee TUTT L E COM PANY

Rutland. Vermount Tokyo, Japan

Published by the Charles E. Tuttle Company

of Rutland, Vermont & Tokyo, Japan

with editorial offices at

15 Edogawa-cho, Bunkyo-ku, Tokyo

All rights reserved

Library of Congress Catalog

Card No. 57-8791

First edition, May 1957

GIFT

Book design & typography

by M. Weatherby

Printed in Japan

by Kenkyusha, Tokyo

% /

9.3%

~)” (: -

To my wife

Dorothy

602

Preface

DECEMBER THE SEVENTH of the year 1941 was the day

when the Japanese bombs fell on Pearl Harbor.

As of that moment, the Japanese in the United

States became, by virtue of their ineradicable brown

ness and the slant eyes which, upon close inspection,

will seldom appear slanty, animals of a different breed.

The moment the impact of the words solemnly being

transmitted over the several million radios of the

nation struck home, everything Japanese and everyone

Japanese became despicable.

The college professor, finding it suddenly impossible

to meet squarely the gaze of his polite, serious, but

now too Japanese-ish star pupil, coughed on his pipe

and assured the lad that things were a mess. Con

viction lacking, he failed at his attempt to be worldly

and assuring. He mumbled something about things

turning out one way or the other sooner or later and

sighed with relief when the little fellow, who hardly

ever smiled and, now, probably never would, stood

up and left the room.

In a tavern, a drunk, irrigating the sponge in his

belly, let it be known to the world that he never

preface {}

thought much about the sneaky Japs and that this

proved he was right. It did not matter that he owed

his Japanese landlord three-weeks’ rent, nor that that

industrious Japanese had often picked him off the

sidewalk and deposited him on his bed. Someone set

up a round of beer for the boys in the place and, further

fortified, he announced with patriotic tremor in his

alcoholic tones that he would be first in line at the

recruiting office the very next morning. That night

the Japanese landlord picked him off the sidewalk and

put him to bed.

Jackie was a whore and the news made her unhappy

because she got two bucks a head and the Japanese

boys were clean and considerate and hot and fast.

Aside from her professional interest in them, she really

liked them. She was sorry and, in her sorrow, she

suffered a little with them.

A truck and a keen sense of horse-trading had

provided a good living for Herman Fine. He bought

from and sold primarily to Japanese hotel-keepers

and grocers. No transaction was made without con

siderable haggling and clever maneuvering, for the

Japanese could be and often were a shifty lot whose

solemn promises frequently turned out to be ground

work for more extended and complex stratagems to

cheat him out of his rightful profit. Herman Fine

listened to the radio and cried without tears for the

Japanese, who, in an instant of time that was not

even a speck on the big calendar, had taken their place

beside the Jew. The Jew was used to suffering. The

writing for them was etched in caked and dried blood

9 preface

over countless generations upon countless generations.

The Japanese did not know. They were proud, too

proud, and they were ambitious, too ambitious. Bombs

had fallen and, in less time than it takes a Japanese

farmer’s wife in California to run from the fields into

the house and give birth to a child, the writing was

scrawled for them. The Jap-Jew would look in the

mirror this Sunday night and see a Jap-Jew.

The indignation, the hatred, the patriotism of the

American people shifted into full-throated condem

nation of the Japanese who blotted their land. The

Japanese who were born Americans and remained

Japanese because biology does not know the meaning

of patriotism no longer worried about whether they

were Japanese-Americans or American-Japanese. They

were Japanese, just as were their Japanese mothers

and Japanese fathers and Japanese brothers and

sisters. The radio had said as much.

First, the real Japanese-Japanese were rounded up.

These real Japanese-Japanese were Japanese nationals

who had the misfortune to be diplomats and business

men and visiting professors. They were put on a boat

and sent back to Japan.

Then the alien Japanese, the ones who had been in

America for two, three, or even four decades, were

screened, and those found to be too actively Japanese

were transported to the hinterlands and put in a

Camp.

The security screen was sifted once more and, this

time, the lesser lights were similarly plucked and

deposited. An old man, too old, too feeble, and too

preface I0

scared, was caught in the net. In his pocket was a

little, black book. He had been a collector for theJapan

Help-the-Poor-and-Starving-and-Flooded-Out-and

Homeless-and-Crippled-and-What-Have-You Fund.

“Yamada-san, 50 American cents; Okada-san, two

American dollars; Watanabe-san, 24 American cents;

Takizaki-san, skip this month because boy broke

leg”; and so on down the page. Yamada-san, Okada

san, Watanabe-san, Takizaki-san, and so on down

the page were whisked away from their homes while

weeping families wept until the tears must surely have

been wept dry, and then wept some more.

By now, the snowball was big enough to wipe out

the rising sun. The big rising sun would take a little

more time, but the little rising sun which was the

Japanese in countless Japanese communities in the

coastal states of Washington, Oregon, and California

presented no problem. The whisking and transporting

ofJapanese and the construction of camps with barbed

wire and ominous towers supporting fully armed

soldiers in places like Idaho and Wyoming and Arizona,

places which even Hollywood scorned for background,

had become skills which demanded the utmost of

America’s great organizing ability.

And so, a few months after the seventh day of

December of the year nineteen forty-one, the only

Japanese left on the west coast of the United States

was Matsusaburo Inabukuro who, while it has been

forgotten whether he was Japanese-American or

American-Japanese, picked up an “I am Chinese”—

II preface

not American or American-Chinese or Chinese-Ameri

can but “I am Chinese”—button and got a job in

a California shipyard.

Two years later a good Japanese-American who

had volunteered for the army sat smoking in the belly

of a B-24 on his way back to Guam from a reconnais

sance flight to Japan. His job was to listen through his

earphones, which were attached to a high-frequency

set, and jot down air-ground messages spoken by

Japanese-Japanese in Japanese planes and in Japanese

radio shacks.

The lieutenant who operated the radar-detection

equipment was a blond giant from Nebraska.

The lieutenant from Nebraska said: “Where you

from?”

The Japanese-American who was an American

soldier answered: “No place in particular.”

“You got folks?”

“Yeah, I got folks.”

“Where at?”

“Wyoming, out in the desert.”

“Farmers, huh?”

“Not quite.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Well, it's this way. . . .” And then the Japanese

American whose folks were still Japanese-Japanese,

or else they would not be in a camp with barbed wire

and watchtowers with soldiers holding rifles, told

the blond giant from Nebraska about the removal of

the Japanese from the Coast, which was called the

preface I2

evacuation, and about the concentration camps, which

were called relocation centers.

The lieutenant listened and he didn’t believe it.

He said: “That’s funny. Now, tell me again.”

The Japanese-American soldier of the American

army told it again and didn’t change a word.

The lieutenant believed him this time. “Hell’s

bells,” he exclaimed, “if they’d done that to me, I

wouldn’t be sitting in the belly of a broken-down

B-24 going back to Guam from a reconnaissance mission

to Japan.”

“I got reasons,” said the Japanese-American soldier

soberly.

“They could kiss my ass,” said the lieutenant from

Nebraska. -

“I got reasons,” said the Japanese-American soldier

soberly, and he was thinking about a lot of things

but mostly about his friend who didn’t volunteer for

the army because his father had been picked up in

the second screening and was in a different camp

from the one he and his mother and two sisters were

in. Later on, the army tried to draft his friend out

of the relocation camp into the army and the friend

had stood before the judge and said let my father out

of that other camp and come back to my mother who

is an old woman but misses him enough to want to

sleep with him and I’ll try on the uniform. The judge

said he couldn’t do that and the friend said he wouldn’t

be drafted and they sent him to the federal prison

where he now was.

preface I3

“What the hell are we fighting for?” said the lieu

tenant from Nebraska.

“I got reasons,” said the Japanese-American soldier

soberly and thought some more about his friend who

was in another kind of uniform because they wouldn’t

let his father go to the same camp with his mother

and sisters.

* + + - + - ) - -

- - - - -

No 2 No 2 No 2 No 2 | No 2 No 2 No 2 No 1

Two weeks AFTER his twenty-fifth birthday,

Ichiro got off a bus at Second and Main in Seattle.

He had been gone four years, two in camp and two in

prison.

Walking down the street that autumn morning with

a small, black suitcase, he felt like an intruder in a

world to which he had no claim. It was just enough

that he should feel this way, for, of his own free will,

he had stood before the judge and said that he would

not go in the army. At the time there was no other

choice for him. That was when he was twenty-three,

a man of twenty-three. Now, two years older, he was

even more of a man.

Christ, he thought to himself, just a goddamn kid

is all I was. Didn’t know enough to wipe my own

nose. What the hell have I done? What am I doing

back here? Best thing I can do would be to kill some

son of a bitch and head back to prison.

He walked toward the railroad depot where the

tower with the clocks on all four sides was. It was a

dirty looking tower of ancient brick. It was a dirty

No 2 No 2 I8

city. Dirtier, certainly, than it had a right to be after

only four years.

Waiting for the light to change to green, he looked

around at the people standing at the bus stop. A

couple of men in suits, half a dozen women who failed

to arouse him even after prolonged good behavior,

and a young Japanese with a lunch bucket. Ichiro

studied him, searching in his mind for the name that

went with the round, pimply face and the short-cropped

hair. The pimples were gone and the face had

hardened, but the hair was still cropped. The fellow

wore green, army-fatigue trousers and an Eisenhower

jacket—Eto Minato. The name came to him at the

same time as did the horrible significance of the army

clothes. In panic, he started to step off the curb. It

was too late. He had been seen.

“Itchy!” That was his nickname.

Trying to escape, Ichiro urged his legs frenziedly

across the street.

“Hey, Itchy!” The caller's footsteps ran toward

him.

An arm was placed across his back. Ichiro stopped

and faced the other Japanese. He tried to smile, but

could not. There was no way out now.

“I’m Eto. Remember?” Eto Smiled and extended

his palm. Reluctantly, Ichiro lifted his own hand and

let the other shake it.

The round face with the round eyes peered at him

through silver-rimmed spectacles. “What the hell!

It’s been a long time, but not that long. How’ve you

been? What’s doing?”

I9 NO Y NO &

“Well . . . that is, I’m . . .”

“Last time must have been before Pearl Harbor.

God, it’s been quite a while, hasn’t it? Three, no,

closer to four years, I guess. Lotsa Japs coming back

to the Coast. Lotsa Japs in Seattle. You’ll see 'em

around. Japs are funny that way. Gotta have their

rice and saké and other Japs. Stupid, I say. The smart

ones went to Chicago and New York and lotsa places

back east, but there’s still plenty coming back out

this way.” Eto drew cigarettes from his breast pocket

and held out the package. “No” Well, I’ll have one.

Got the habit in the army. Just got out a short while

back. Rough time, but I made it. Didn’t get out in

time to make the quarter, but I’m planning to go to

school. How long you been around?”

Ichiro touched his toe to the suitcase. “Just got in.

Haven’t been home yet.”

“When’d you get discharged?”

A car grinding its gears started down the street.

He wished he were in it. “I . . . that is . . . I never

was in.”

Eto slapped him good-naturedly on the arm. “No

need to look so sour. So you weren’t in. So what?

Been in camp all this time?”

“No.” He made an effort to be free of Eto with

his questions. He felt as if he were in a small room

whose walls were slowly closing in on him. “It’s been

a long time, I know, but I’m really anxious to see the

folks.”

“What the hell. Let’s have a drink. On me. I don’t

give a damn if I’m late to work. As for your folks,

NO Y NO & 20

you’ll see them soon enough. You drink, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but not now.”

“Ahh.” Eto was disappointed. He shifted his lunch

box from under one arm to the other.

“I’ve really got to be going.”

The round face wasn’t smiling any more. It was

thoughtful. The eyes confronted Ichiro with indecision

which changed slowly to enlightenment and then to

suspicion. He remembered. He knew.

The friendliness was gone as he said: “No-no boy,

huh?”

Ichiro wanted to say yes. He wanted to return the

look of despising hatred and say simply yes, but it

was too much to say. The walls had closed in and

were crushing all the unspoken words back down into

his stomach. He shook his head once, not wanting

to evade the eyes but finding it impossible to meet

them. Out of his big weakness the little ones were

branching, and the eyes he didn’t have the courage

to face were ever present. If it would have helped to

gouge out his own eyes, he would have done so long

ago. The hate-churned eyes with the stamp of unre

lenting condemnation were his cross and he had driven

the nails with his own hands. -

“Rotten bastard. Shit on you.” Eto coughed up a

mouthful of sputum and rolled his words around it:

“Rotten, no-good bastard.”

Surprisingly, Ichiro felt relieved. Eto's anger seemed

to serve as a release to his own naked tensions. As he

stooped to lift the suitcase a wet wad splattered over

)

| º

2I NO Y NO 2

his hand and dripped onto the black leather. The

legs of his accuser were in front of him. God in a pair

of green fatigues, U.S. Army style. They were the legs

of the jury that had passed sentence upon him. Beseech

me, they seemed to say, throw your arms about me

and bury your head between my knees and seek pardon

for your great sin.

“I’ll piss on you next time,” said Eto vehemently.

He turned as he lifted the suitcase off the ground

and hurried away from the legs and the eyes from

which no escape was possible.

Jackson Street started at the water front and stretched

past the two train depots and up the hill all the way

to the lake, where the houses were bigger and cleaner

and had garages with late-model cars in them. For

Ichiro, Jackson Street signified that section of the

city immediately beyond the railroad tracks between

Fifth and Twelfth Avenues. That was the section

which used to be pretty much Japanese town. It was

adjacent to Chinatown and most of the gambling and

prostitution and drinking seemed to favor the area.

Like the dirty clock tower of the depot, the filth

of Jackson Street had increased. Ichiro paused momen

tarily at an alley and peered down the passage formed

by the walls of two sagging buildings. There had been

a door there at one time, a back door to a movie house

which only charged a nickel. A nickel was a lot of

money when he had been seven or nine or eleven.

He wanted to go into the alley to see if the door was

still there.

No 2 No 2 22

Being on Jackson Street with its familiar store fronts

and taverns and restaurants, which were somehow

different because the war had left its mark on them,

was like trying to find one’s way out of a dream that

seemed real most of the time but wasn’t really real

because it was still only a dream. The war had wrought

violent changes upon the people, and the people, in

turn, working hard and living hard and earning a

lot of money and spending it on whatever was avail

able, had distorted the profile of Jackson Street. The

street had about it the air of a carnival without quite

succeeding at becoming one. A shooting gallery stood

where once had been a clothing store; fish and chips

had replaced a jewelry shop; and a bunch of Negroes

were horsing around raucously in front of a pool

parlor. Everything looked older and dirtier and

shabbier.

He walked past the pool parlor, picking his way

gingerly among the Negroes, of whom there had been

only a few at one time and of whom there seemed to

be nothing but now. They were smoking and shouting

and cussing and carousing and the sidewalk was slimy

with their spittle.

“Jap!”

His pace quickened automatically, but curiosity or

fear or indignation or whatever it was made him

glance back at the white teeth framed in a leering

dark brown which was almost black.

* “Go back to Tokyo, boy.” Persecution in the drawl

of the persecuted.

The white teeth and brown-black leers picked up

23 No 2 NO &

the cue and jigged to the rhythmical chanting of

“Jap-boy, To-ki-yo; Jap-boy, To-ki-yo . . .”

Friggin’ niggers, he uttered savagely to himself and,

from the same place deep down inside where tolerance

for the Negroes and the Jews and the Mexicans and

the Chinese and the too short and too fat and too ugly Nº. Q. . ."

abided because he was Japanese and knew what it \ \º

was like better than did those who were white and average and middle class and good Democrats or liberal ºx \r

Republicans, the hate which was unrelenting and

terrifying seethed up. dº.

Then he was home. It was a hole in the wall with º

groceries crammed in orderly confusion on not enough As

shelving, into not enough space. He knew what it

would be like even before he stepped in. His father

had described the place to him in a letter, composed

in simple Japanese characters because otherwise Ichiro

could not have read it. The letter had been purposely

repetitive and painstakingly detailed so that Ichiro

should not have any difficulty finding the place. The

grocery store was the same one the Ozakis had oper

ated for many years. That’s all his father had had to

say. Come to the grocery store which was once the

store of the Ozakis. The Japanese characters, written

simply so that he could read them, covered pages of

directions as if he were a foreigner coming to the city

for the first time.

Thinking about the letter made him so mad that

he forgot about the Negroes. He opened the door just

as he had a thousand times when they had lived farther

down the block and he used to go to the Ozakis’ for

No 2 NO 2 24

\\

ye.”

ºr

º

U9

a loaf of bread or a jar of pickled scallions, and the

bell tinkled just as he knew it would. All the grocery

stores he ever knew had bells which tinkled when one

opened the door and the familiar sound softened his

inner turmoil.

“Ichiro?” The short, round man who came through

the curtains at the back of the store uttered the name

preciously as might an old woman. “Ya, Ichiro, you

have come home. How good that you have come

home!” The gently spoken Japanese which he had

not heard for so long sounded strange. He would hear

a great deal of it now that he was home, for his

parents, like most of the old Japanese, spoke virtually

no English. On the other hand, the children, like

Jchiro, spoke almost no Japanese. Thus they com

cºmunicated, the old speaking Japanese with an oc

casional badly mispronounced word or two of English; -

and the young, with the exception of a simple word

or phrase of Japanese which came fairly effortlessly

to the lips, resorting almost constantly to the tongue

the parents avoided.

The father bounced silently over the wood flooring

in slippered feet toward his son. Fondly, delicately,

he placed a pudgy hand on Ichiro's elbow and looked

up at his son who was Japanese but who had been

big enough for football and tall enough for basketball

in high school. He pushed the elbow and Ichiro led

the way into the back, where there was a kitchen,

a bathroom, and one bedroom. He looked around

the bedroom and felt like puking. It was neat and

clean and scrubbed. His mother would have seen to

25 NO & NO 2

that. It was just the idea of everybody sleeping in

the one room. He wondered if his folks still pounded

flesh.

He backed out of the bedroom and slumped down

On a stool. “Where’s Ma’”

“Mama is gone to the bakery.” The father kept his

beaming eyes on his son who was big and tall. He

shut off the flow of water and shifted the metal teapot

to the stove.

“What for?”

“Bread,” his father said in reply, “bread for the

store.”

“Don’t they deliver?”

“Ya, they deliver.” He ran a damp rag over the

table, which was spotlessly clean.

º: she doing at the bakery then?” t is good business, Ichiro.” He was at the cupboard,

fussing with the tea and cups and saucers and cookies.

“The truck comes in the morning. We take enough

for the morning business. For the afternoon, we get

soft, fresh bread. Mama goes to the bakery.”

Ichiro tried to think of a bakery nearby and

couldn’t. There was a big Wonder Bread bakery way

up on Nineteenth, where a nickel used to buy a bagful

of day-old stuff. That was thirteen and a half blocks,

all uphill. He knew the distance by heart because he’d

walked it twice every day to go to grade school, which

was a half-block beyond the bakery or fourteen blocks

from home.

“What bakery?”

The water on the stove began to boil and the old

No 3 NO & 26

man flipped the lid on the pot and tossed in a pinch

of leaves. “Wonder Bread.”

“Is that the one up on Nineteenth?”

“Ya.”

“How much do you make on bread?”

“Let’s see,” he said pouring the tea, “Oh, three,

four cents. Depends.”

“How many loaves does Ma get?”

“Ten or twelve. Depends.”

Ten loaves at three or four cents’ profit added up

to thirty or forty cents. He compromised at thirty-five

cents and asked the next question: “The bus, how

much is it?”

“Oh, let’s see.” He sipped the tea noisily, sucking

it through his teeth in well regulated gulps. “Let’s

see. Fifteen cents for one time. Tokens are two for

twenty-five cents. That is twelve and one-half cents.”

Twenty-five cents for bus fare to get ten loaves of

bread which turned a profit of thirty-five cents. It

would take easily an hour to make the trip up and

back. He didn’t mean to shout, but he shouted: “Christ,

Pa, what else do you give away?”

His father peered over the teacup with a look of

innocent surprise.

It made him madder. “Figure it out. Just figure it

out. Say you make thirty-five cents on ten loaves.

You take a bus up and back and there’s twenty-five

cents shot. That leaves ten cents. On top of that, there's

an hour wasted. What are you running a business

for? Your health?”

Slup went the tea through his teeth, slup, slup,

27 NO & No 2

slup. “Mama walks.” He sat there looking at his son

like a benevolent Buddha.

Ichiro lifted the cup to his lips and let the liquid

burn down his throat. His father had said “Mama

walks” and that made things right with the world.

The overwhelming simplicity of the explanation

threatened to evoke silly giggles which, if permitted

to escape, might lead to hysterics. He clenched his

fists and subdued them.

At the opposite end of the table the father had

slupped the last of his tea and was already taking

the few steps to the sink to rinse out the cup.

“Goddammit, Pa, sit down!” He’d never realized

how nervous a man his father was. The old man had

constantly been doing something every minute since

he had come. It didn’t figure. Here he was, round and

fat and cheerful-looking and, yet, he was going in

cessantly as though his trousers were crawling with

antS.

“Ya, Ichiro, I forget you have just come home.

We should talk.” He resumed his seat at the table and

busied his fingers with a box of matches.

Ichiro stepped out of the kitchen, spotted the

cigarettes behind the cash register, and returned with

a pack of Camels. Lighting a match, the old man held

it between his fingers and waited until the son opened

the package and put a cigarette in his mouth. By

then the match was threatening to sear his fingers.

He dropped it hastily and stole a sheepish glance at

Ichiro, who reached for the box and struck his own

match.

No 2 NO & 28

“Ichiro.” There was a timorousness in the father's

voice. Or was it apology?

“Yeah.”

“Was it very hard?”

“No. It was fun.” The sarcasm didn’t take.

“You are sorry?” He was waddling over rocky

ground on a pitch-black night and he didn’t like it

one bit.

“I’m okay, Pa. It's finished. Done and finished.

No use talking about it.”

“True,” said the old man too heartily, “it is done

and there is no use to talk.” The bell tinkled and he

leaped from the chair and fled out of the kitchen.

Using the butt of the first cigarette, Ichiro lit an

other. He heard his father’s voice in the store.

“Mama. Ichiro. Ichiro is here.”

f The sharp, lifeless tone of his mother's words flipped

through the silence and he knew that she hadn’t

changed.

- “The bread must be put out.”

In other homes mothers and fathers and sons and

daughters rushed into hungry arms after week-end

separations to find assurance in crushing embraces

and loving kisses. The last time he saw his mother

was over two years ago. He waited, seeing in the

sounds of the rustling waxed paper the stiff, angular

figure of the woman stacking the bread on the rack

-in neat, precise piles.

His father came back into the kitchen with a little

less bounce and began to wash the cups. She came

through the curtains a few minutes after, a small,

29 No 2 NO &

flat-chested, shapeless woman who wore her hair

pulled back into a tight bun. Hers was the awkward,

skinny body of a thirteen-year-old which had dried

and toughened through the many years following

but which had developed no further. He wondered

how the two of them had ever gotten together long

enough to have two sons.

“I am proud that you are back,” she said. “I am

proud to call you my son.”

...H...what he was and that the thing in him which made . him say no to the judge and go to prison for two

years was the growth of a seed planted by the mother

tree and that she was the mother who had put this

thing in her son and that everything that had been

done and Said was exactly as it should have been

and that that was what made him her son because

no other would have made her feel the pride that

was in her breast. -

He looked at his mother and swallowed with diffi

culty the bitterness that threatened to destroy the

last fragment of understanding for the woman who

was his mother and still a stranger because, in truth, ,

he could not know what it was to be a Japanese who

breathed the air of America and vet had never lifted

######: “" -“I’ve been talking with Pa,” he said, not knowing

or caring why except that he had to say something.

“After a while, you and I, we will talk also.” She

walked through the kitchen into the bedroom and

hung her coat and hat in a wardrobe of cardboard

No 2 No 2 30

which had come from Sears Roebuck. Then she came

back through the kitchen and out into the store.

The father gave him what was meant to be a

knowing look and uttered softly: “Doesn’t like my

not being in the store when she is out. I tell her the

bell tinkles, but she does not understand.”

“Hell's bells,” he said in disgust. Pushing himself

out of the chair violently, he strode into the bedroom

and flung himself out on one of the double beds.

Lying there, he wished the roof would fall in and

bury forever the anguish which permeated his every

pore. He lay there fighting with his burden, lighting

one cigarette after another and dropping ashes and

butts purposely on the floor. It was the way he felt,

stripped of dignity, respect, purpose, honor, all the

things which added up to schooling and marriage

and family and work and happiness.

It was to please her, he said to himself with teeth

clamped together to imprison the wild, meaningless,

despairing cry which was forever straining inside of

him. Pa's okay, but he’s a nobody. He’s a goddamned,

fat, grinning, spineless nobody. Ma is the rock that’s

always hammering, pounding, pounding, pounding

in her unobtrusive, determined, fanatical way until

there's nothing left to call one's self. She's cursed me

with her meanness and the hatred that you cannot

see but which is always hating. It was she who opened

my mouth and made my lips move to sound the words

which got me two years in prison and an emptiness

that is more empty and frightening than the caverns

of hell. She's killed me with her meannessand hatred

31 NO Y NO &

and I hope she's happy because I’ll never know the

meaning of it again.

“Ichiro.”

He propped himself up on an elbow and looked at

her. She had hardly changed. Surely, there must have

been a time when she could smile and, yet, he could

not remember.

“Yeah?”

“Lunch is on the table.”

As he pushed himself off the bed and walked past

her to the kitchen, she took broom and dustpan and

swept up the mess he had made.

There were eggs, fried with soy sauce, sliced cold

meat, boiled cabbage, and tea and rice. They all ate

in silence, not even disturbed once by the tinkling

of the bell. The father cleared the table after they had

finished and dutifully retired to watch the store. Ichiro

had smoked three cigarettes before his mother ended

the silence.

“You must go back to school.”

He had almost forgotten that there had been a time

before the war when he had actually gone to college

for two years and studiously applied himself to courses

in the engineering school. The statement staggered

him. Was that all there was to it? Did she mean to sit

there and imply that the four intervening years were

to be casually forgotten and life resumed as if there

had been no four years and no war and no Eto who

had spit on him because of the thing he had done?

“I don’t feel much like going to school.”

No 3 NO & 32

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know.”

“With an education, your opportunities in Japan

will be unlimited. You must go and complete your

studies.”

“Ma,” he said slowly, “Ma, I’m not going to

Japan. Nobody’s going to Japan. The war is over.

Japan lost. Do you hear? Japan lost.”

“You believe that?” It was said in the tone of an

adult asking a child who is no longer a child if he

really believed that Santa Claus was real.

“Yes, I believe it. I know it. America is still here.

Do you see the great Japanese army walking down

the streets? No. There is no Japanese army any more.”

“The boat is coming and we must be ready.”

“The boat?”

“Yes.” She reached into her pocket and drew out

a worn envelope.

The letter had been mailed from Sao Paulo, Brazil,

and was addressed to a name that he did not recognize.

Inside the envelope was a single sheet of flimsy, rice

paper covered with intricate flourishes of Japanese

characters.

“What does it say?”

She did not bother to pick up the letter. “To you

who are a loyal and honorable Japanese, it is with

humble and heartfelt joy that I relay this momentous

message. Word has been brought to us that the vic

torious Japanese government is presently making

preparations to send ships which will return to Japan

those residents in foreign countries who have stead

33 No 2 NO 2

fastly maintained their faith and loyalty to our Emper

or. The Japanese government regrets that the responsi

bilities arising from the victory compels them to delay

in the sending of the vessels. To be among the few

who remain to receive this honor is a gratifying tribute.

Heed not the propaganda of the radio and newspapers

which endeavor to convince the people with lies about

the allied victory. Especially, heed not the lies of your

traitorous countrymen who have turned their backs

on the country of their birth and who will suffer for

their treasonous acts. The day of glory is close at

hand. The rewards will be beyond our greatest ex

pectations. What we have done, we have done only

as Japanese, but the government is grateful. Hold

your heads high and make ready for the journey, for

the ships are coming.”

“Who wrote that?” he asked incredulously. It was

like a weird nightmare. It was like finding out that

an incurable strain of insanity pervaded the family,

an intangible horror that swayed and taunted beyond

the grasp of reaching fingers.

“A friend in South America. We are not alone.”

“We are alone,” he said vehemently. “This whole

thing is crazy. You’re crazy. I’m crazy. All right, so

we made a mistake. Let’s admit it.”

“There has been no mistake. The letter confirms.”

“Sure it does. It proves there's crazy people in the

world besides us. If Japan won the war, what the hell

are we doing here? What are you doing running a

grocery store? It doesn’t figure. It doesn’t figure be

cause we’re all wrong. The minute we admit that,

No 2 NO & 34

everything is fine. I’ve had a lot of time to think about

all this. I’ve thought about nothing else. Two years

I’ve thought about it, and every time the answer

comes out the same. You can’t tell me different

any more.”

She sighed ever so slightly. “We will talk later when

you are feeling better.” Carefully folding the letter

and placing it back in the envelope, she returned it

to her pocket. “It is not I who tell you that the ship

is coming. It is in the letter. If you have come to

doubt your mother—and I’m sure you do not mean

it even if you speak in weakness—it is to be regretted.

Rest a few days. Think more deeply and your doubts

will disappear. You are my son, Ichiro.”

No, he said to himself as he watched her part the

curtains and start into the store. There was a time

when I was your son. There was a time that I no

longer remember when you used to smile a mother's

smile and tell me stories about gallant and fierce

warriors who protected their lords with blades of

shining steel and about the old woman who found

a peach in the stream and took it home and, when her

husband split it in half, a husky little boy tumbled out

to fill their hearts with boundless joy. I was that boy

in the peach and you were the old woman and we

were Japanese with Japanese feelings and Japanese

pride and Japanese thoughts because it was all right

then to be Japanese and feel and think all the things

that Japanese do even if we lived in America. Then

there came a time when I was only half Japanese

because one is not born in America and raised in

35 NO Y NO &

America and taught in America and one does not

speak and swear and drink and smoke and play and \

fight and see and hear in America among Americans W 4- º*

in American streets and houses without becoming º,

American and loving it. But I did not love enough, º, . .

for you were still half my mother and I was thereby ºº

still half Japanese and when the war came and they \9.

told me to fight for America, I was not strong enough

to fight you and I was not strong enough to fight the

bitterness which made the half of me which was you

bigger than the me which was America and T

really the whole of me—that I could not see or feel.

Now that I know the truth when it is too late and

the half of me which was you is no longer there, I

am only half of me and the half that remains is

American by law because the government was wise

and strong enough to know why it was that I could

not fight for America and did not strip me of my

birthright. But it is not enough to be American only

in the eyes of the law and it is not enough to be only

half an American and know that it is an empty half.

I am not your son and I am not Japanese and I am

not American. I can go someplace and tell people that

I’ve got an inverted stomach and that I am an Ameri

can, true and blue and Hail Columbia, but the army

wouldn’t have me because of the stomach. That’s

easy and I would do it, only I’ve got to convince

myself first and that I cannot do. I wish with all my

heart that I were Japanese or that I were American.

I am neither and I blame you and I blame myself

and I blame the world which is made up of many

Wvov-loº Cº > /

Not No 2 36

countries which fight with each other and kill and

hate and destroy but not enough, so that they must

kill and hate and destroy again and again and again.

It is so easy and simple that I cannot understand it

at all. And the reason I do not understand it is be

cause I do not understand you who were the half of

me that is no more and because I do not understand

what it was about that half that made me destroy

the half of me which was American and the half

which might have become the whole of me if I had

said yes I will go and fight in your army because that

is what I believe and want and cherish and love. . . .

Defeatedly, he crushed the stub of a cigarette into

an ash tray filled with many other stubs and reached

for the package to get another. It was empty and he

did not want to go into the store for more because

he did not feel much like seeing either his father or

mother. He went into the bedroom and tossed and

groaned and half slept.

Hours later, someone shook him awake. It was not

his mother and it was not his father. The face that

looked down at him in the gloomy darkness was his

brother’s.

“Taro,” he said softly, for he had hardly thought

of him.

“Yeah, it’s me,” said his brother with unmistakable

embarrassment. “I see you got out.”

“How've you been?” He studied his brother, who

was as tall as he but skinnier.

“Okay. It’s time to eat.” He started to leave.

37 NO Y NO 2

“Taro, wait.”

His brother stood framed in the light of the doorway

and faced him.

“How've you been?” he repeated. Then he added

quickly for fear of losing him: “No, I said that before

and I don’t mean it the way it sounds. We’ve got

things to talk about. Long time since we saw each

other.”

“Yeah, it’s been a long time.”

“How’s School?”

“Okay.”

“About through with high school?”

“Next June.”

“What then? College?”

“No, army.”

He wished he could see his face, the face of the

brother who spoke to him as though they were strangers

—because that’s what they were.

“You could get in a year or two before the draft”

he heard himself saying in an effort to destroy the

wall that separated them. “I read where you can take

an exam now and get a deferment if your showing is

good enough. A fellow’s got to have all the education

he can get, Taro.”

“I don’t want a deferment. I want in.”

“Ma know?”

“Who Cares?”

“She won’t like it.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Why so strong about the army? Can’t you wait?

They’ll come and get you soon enough.”

NO Y NO & 38

“That isn’t soon enough for me.”

“What’s your reason?”

He waited for an answer, knowing what it was and

not wanting to hear it.

“Is it because of me? What I did?”

“I’m hungry,” his brother said and turned into the

kitchen.

His mother had already eaten and was watching

the store. He sat opposite his brother, who wolfed

down the food without looking back at him. It wasn’t

more than a few minutes before he rose, grabbed his

jacket off a nail on the wall, and left the table. The

bell tinkled and he was gone.

“Don’t mind him,” said the father apologetically.

“Taro is young and restless. He’s never home except

to eat and sleep.”

“When does he study?”

“He does not.”

“Why don’t you do something about it?”

“I tell him. Mama tells him. Makes no difference.

It is the war that has made them that way. All the

people say the same thing. The war and the camp

life. Made them wild like cats and dogs. It is hard to

understand.”

“Sure,” he said, but he told himself that he under

stood, that the reason why Taro was not a son and

not a brother was because he was young and American

and alien to his parents, who had lived in America

for thirty-five years without becoming less Japanese

and could speak only a few broken words of English

and write it not at all, and because Taro hated that

39 NO Y NO &

thing in his elder brother which had prevented him

from thinking for himself. And in his hate for that

thing, he hated his brother and also his parents because

they had created the thing with their eyes and hands

and minds which had seen and felt and thought as

Japanese for thirty-five years in an America which

they rejected as thoroughly as if they had never been

a day away from Japan. That was the reason and it

was difficult to believe, but it was true because he

was the emptiness between the one and the other and

could see flashes of the truth that was true for his

parents and the truth that was true for his brother.

“Pa,” he said.

“Ya, Ichiro.” He was swirling a dishcloth in a pan

of hot water and working up suds for the dishes.

“What made you and Ma come to America?”

“Everyone was coming to America.”

“Did you have to come?”

“No. We came to make money.”

“Is that all?” -

“Ya. I think that was why we came.”

“Why to make money?”

“There was a man in my village who went to

America and made a lot of money and he came back

and bought a big piece of land and he was very com

fortable. We came so we could make money and go

back and buy a big piece of land and be comfortable

too.”

“Did you ever think about staying here and not

going back?”

“No.”

NO & NO & 40

He looked at his father, who was old and bald and

washing dishes in a kitchen that was behind a hole

in the wall that was a grocery store. “How do you

feel about it now?”

“About what?”

“Going back.”

“We are going.”

“When?”

“Oh, pretty soon.”

“How Soon?”

“Pretty soon.”

There didn’t seem to be much point in pursuing the

questioning. He went out to the store and got a fresh

pack of cigarettes. His mother was washing down the

vegetable stand, which stood alongside the entrance.

Her thin arms swabbed the green-painted wood with

sweeping, vigorous strokes. There was power in the

wiry, brown arms, a hard, blind, unreckoning force

which coursed through veins of tough bamboo. When

she had done with her work, she carried the pail of

water to the curb outside and poured it on the street.

Then she came back through the store and into the

living quarters and emerged once more dressed in

her coat and hat.

“Come, Ichiro,” she said, “we must go and see

Kumasaka-san and Ashida-san. They will wish to

know that you are back.”

The import of the suggested visits made him waver

helplessly. He was too stunned to voice his protest.

The Kumasakas and the Ashidas were people from

the same village in Japan. The three families had been

41 NO & NO Y

very close for as long as he could recall. Further, it was

customary among the Japanese to pay ceremonious

visits upon various occasions to families of close as

sociation. This was particularly true when a member

of one of the families either departed on an extended

absence or returned from an unusually long separation.

Yes, he had been gone a long time, but it was such a

different thing. It wasn’t as if he had gone to war and

returned safe and sound or had been matriculating

at some school in another city and come home with

a sheepskin summa cum laude. He scrabbled at the

confusion in his mind for the logic of the crazy business

and found no satisfaction.

“Papa,” his mother shouted without actually

shouting.

His father hastened out from the kitchen and Ichiro

stumbled in blind fury after the woman who was only

a rock of hate and fanatic stubbornness and was,

therefore, neither woman nor mother.

They walked through the night and the city, a

mother and son thrown together for a while longer

because the family group is a stubborn one and does

not easily disintegrate. The woman walked ahead and

the son followed and no word passed between them.

They walked six blocks, then six more, and still an

other six before they turned into a three-story frame

building.

The Ashidas, parents and three daughters, occupied

four rooms on the second floor.

“Mama,” screamed the ten-year-old who answered

the knock, “Mrs. Yamada.”

NO Y NO & 42

A fat, cheerful-looking woman rushed toward them,

then stopped, flushed and surprised. “Ichiro-san.

You have come back.”

He nodded his head and heard his mother say, with

unmistakable exultation: “Today, Ashida-san. Just

today he came home.”

Urged by their hostess, they took seats in the sparsely

furnished living room. Mrs. Ashida sat opposite them

on a straight-backed kitchen chair and beamed.

“You have grown so much. It is good to be home,

is it not, Ichiro-san?” She turned to the ten-year-old

who gawked at him from behind her mother: “Tell

Reiko to get tea and cookies.”

- “She’s studying, Mama.”

“You mustn't bother,” said his mother.

“Go, now. I know she is only listening to the radio.”

The little girl fled out of the room.

“It is good to see you again, Ichiro-san. You will

find many of your young friends already here. All the

people who said they would never come back to

Seattle are coming back. It is almost like it was before

the war. Akira-san—you went to school with him I

think—he is just back from Italy, and Watanabe-san's

boy came back from Japan last month. It is so good

that the war is over and everything is getting to be like

it was before.”

“You saw the pictures?” his mother asked.

“What pictures?”

“You have not been to the Watanabes’?”

“Oh, yes, the pictures of Japan.” She snickered.

“He is such a serious boy. He showed me all the

43 NO Y NO &

pictures he had taken in Japan. He had many of

Hiroshima and Nagasaki and I told him that he must

be mistaken because Japan did not lose the war as

he seems to believe and that he could not have been

in Japan to take pictures because, if he were in Japan,

he would not have been permitted to remain alive.

He protested and yelled so that his mother had to

tell him to be careful and then he tried to argue some

more, but I asked him if he was ever in Japan before

and could he prove that he was actually there and

he said again to look at the pictures and I told him

that what must really have happened was that the

army only told him he was in Japan when he was

someplace else, and that it was too bad he believed

the propaganda. Then he got so mad his face went

white and he said: “How do you know you're you?

Tell me how you know you’re you!” If his mother had

not made him leave the room, he might even have

struck me. It is not enough that they must willingly

take up arms against their uncles and cousins and even

brothers and sisters, but they no longer have respect

for the old ones. If I had a son and he had gone in

the American army to fight Japan, I would have killed

myself with shame.”

“They know not what they do and it is not their

fault. It is the fault of the parents. I’ve always said

that Mr. Watanabe was a stupid man. Gambling and

drinking the way he does, I am almost ashamed to

call them friends.” Ichiro's mother looked at him

with a look which said I am a Japanese and you are

my son and have conducted yourself as a Japanese

No 3 NO & 44

and I know no shame such as other parents do because

their sons were not really their sons or they would

not have fought against their own people.

He wanted to get up and dash out into the night.

The madness of his mother was in mutual company

and he felt nothing but loathing for the gentle, kindly

looking Mrs. Ashida, who sat on a fifty-cent chair

from Goodwill Industries while her husband worked

the night shift at a hotel, grinning and bowing for

dimes and quarters from rich Americans whom he

detested, and couldn’t afford to take his family on

a bus ride to Tacoma but was waiting and praying and

hoping for the ships from Japan.

Reiko brought in a tray holding little teacups and

a bowl of thin, round cookies. She was around seventeen

with little bumps on her chest which the sweater didn’t

improve and her lips heavily lipsticked a deep red.

She said “Hi’” to him and did not have to say look

at me, I was a kid when you saw me last but now

I’m a woman with a woman’s desires and a woman’s

eye for men like you. She set the tray on the table

and gave him a smile before she left.

His mother took the envelope from Sao Paulo out

of her dress pocket and handed it to Mrs. Ashida.

“From South America.”

The other woman snatched at the envelope and

proceeded to read the contents instantly. Her face

glowed with pride. She read it eagerly, her lips moving

all the time and frequently murmuring audibly. “Such

wonderful news,” she sighed breathlessly as if the

reading of the letter had been a deep emotional ex

45 No 3 NO 2

perience. “Mrs. Okamoto will be eager to see this.

Her husband, who goes out of the house whenever I

am there, is threatening to leave her unless she gives

up her nonsense about Japan. Nonsense, he calls it.

He is no better than a Chinaman. This will show him.

I feel so sorry for her.”

“It is hard when so many no longer believe,” replied

his mother, “but they are not Japanese like us. They

only call themselves such. It is the same with the .

Teradas. I no longer go to see them. The last time.

I was there Mr. Terada screamed at me and told me

to get out. They just don’t understand that Japan did

not lose the war because Japan could not possibly

lose. I try not to hate them but I have no course but

to point them out to the authorities when the ships

come.”

“It’s getting late, Ma.” He stood up, sick in the

stomach and wanting desperately to smash his way

out of the dishonest, warped, and uncompromising

world in which defeated people like his mother and

the Ashidas walked their perilous tightropes and could

not and would not look about them for having to keep

their eyes fastened to the taut, thin support.

“Yes,” his mother replied quickly, “forgive us for

rushing, for you know that I enjoy nothing better than

a vist with you, but we must drop in for a while on

the Kumasakas.”

“Of course. I wish you could stay longer, but I know

that there will be plenty of opportunities again. You

will come again, please, Ichiro-san?”

Mumbling thanks for the tea, he nodded evasively

No 2 NO & 46

_-_

and hurried down the stairs. Outside, he lit a cigarette

and paced restlessly until his mother came out.

“A fine woman,” she said without stopping.

He followed, talking to the back of her head: “Ma,

I don’t want to see the Kumasakas tonight. I don’t

want to see anybody tonight. We’ll go some other

time.”

“We won’t stay long.” -

They walked a few blocks to a freshly painted frame

house that was situated behind a neatly kept lawn.

“Nice house,” he said.

“They bought it last month.”

“Bought it?”

“Yes.”

The Kumasakas had run a dry-cleaning shop before

the war. Business was good and people spoke of their

having money, but they lived in cramped quarters

above the shop because, like most of the other Japa

nese,.*.*.*.*.*.*. still felt like transients even after thirty or forty years

in America and the quarters above the shop seemed

adequate and sensible since the arrangement was

º That, he thought to himself, was the reason why the Japanese were still Japanese.

They rushed to America with the single purpose of

making a fortune which would enable them to return

to their own country and live adequately. It did not

matter when they discovered that fortunes were not

for the mere seeking or that their sojourns were

spanning decades instead of years and it did not matter

47 No 2 NO &

that growing families and growing bills and misfortunes

and illness and low wages and just plain hard luck

were constant obstacles to the realization of their

dreams. They continued to maintain their dreams by

refusing to learn how to speak or write the language

of America and by living only among their own kind

and by zealously avoiding long-term commitments

such as the purchase of a house. But now, the Kuma

sakas, it seemed, had bought this house, and he was

impressed. It could only mean that the Kumasakas

had exchanged hope for reality and, late as it was,

were finally sinking roots into the land from which

they had previously sought not nourishment but only

gold. - *

Mrs. Kumasaka came to the door, a short, heavy

woman who stood solidly on feet planted wide apart,

like a man. She greeted them warmly but with a sad

ness that she would carry to the grave. When Ichiro

had last seen her, her hair had been pitch black.

Now it was completely white.

In the living room Mr. Kumasaka, a small man

with a pleasant smile, was sunk deep in an upholstered

chair, reading a Japanese newspaper. It was a com

fortable room with rugs and soft furniture and lamps

and end tables and pictures on recently papered

walls.

“Ah, Ichiro, it is nice to see you looking well.” Mr.

Kumasaka struggled out of the chair and extended

a friendly hand. “Please, sit down.”

“You’ve got a nice place,” he said, meaning it.

No 2 No 2 48

“Thank you,” the little man said. “Mama and I,

we finally decided that America is not so bad. We

like it here.”

Ichiro sat down on the sofa next to his mother and

felt strange in this home which he envied because it

was like millions of other homes in America and

could never be his own.

Mrs. Kumasaka sat next to her husband on a large,

round hassock and looked at Ichiro with lonely eyes,

which made him uncomfortable.

“Ichiro came home this morning.” It was his mother,

and the sound of her voice, deliberately loud and

almost arrogant, puzzled him. “He has suffered, but

I make no apologies for him or for myself. If he had

given his life for Japan, I could not be prouder.”

“Ma,” he said, wanting to object but not knowing

why except that her comments seemed out of place.

Ignoring him, she continued, not looking at the

man but at his wife, who now sat with head bowed,

her eyes emptily regarding the floral pattern of the

carpet. “A mother's lot is not an easy one. To sleep

with a man and bear a son is nothing. To raise the

child into a man one can be proud of is not play.

Some of us succeed. Some, of course, must fail. It is

too bad, but that is the way of life.”

“Yes, yes, Yamada-san,” said the man impatiently.

Then, smiling, he turned to Ichiro: “I suppose you’ll

be going back to the university?”

“I’ll have to think about it,” he replied, wishing

that his father was like this man who made him want

to pour out the turbulence in his soul.

49 NO & NO &

“He will go when the new term begins. I have im

pressed upon him the importance of a good education.

With a college education, one can go far in Japan.”

His mother smiled knowingly.

“Ah,” said the man as if he had not heard her

speak, “Bobbie wanted to go to the university and

study medicine. He would have made a fine doctor.

Always studying and reading, is that not so, Ichiro?”

He nodded, remembering the quiet son of the Kuma

sakas, who never played football with the rest of the

kids on the street or appeared at dances, but could

talk for hours on end about chemistry and zoology

and physics and other courses which he hungered

after in high school.

“Sure, Bob always was pretty studious.” He knew,

somehow, that it was not the right thing to say, but

he added: “Where is Bob?”

His mother did not move. Mrs. Kumasaka uttered

a despairing cry and bit her trembling lips.

The little man, his face a drawn mask of pity and

sorrow, stammered: “Ichiro, you—no one has told

you?”

“No. What? No one's told me anything.”

“Your mother did not write you?”

“No. Write about what?” He knew what the answer

was. It was in the whiteness of the hair of the sad

woman who was the mother of the boy named Bob

and it was in the engaging pleasantness of the father

which was not really pleasantness but a deep under

standing which had emerged from resignation to a

loss which only a parent knows and suffers. And then

NO 2 NO & 50

he saw the picture on the mantel, a snapshot, enlarged

many times over, of a grinning youth in uniform who

had not thought to remember his parents with a formal

portrait because he was not going to die and there

would be worlds of time for pictures and books and

other obligations of the living later on.

Mr. Kumasaka startled him by shouting toward

the rear of the house: “Jun! Please come.”

There was the sound of a door opening and presently

there appeared a youth in kahki shirt and wool trousers,

who was a stranger to Ichiro.

“I hope I haven’t disturbed anything, Jun,” said

Mr. Kumasaka.

“No, it’s all right. Just writing a letter.”

“This is Mrs. Yamada and her son Ichiro. They

are old family friends.”

Jun nodded to his mother and reached over to

shake Ichiro's hand.

The little man waited until Jun had seated himself

on the end of the sofa. “Jun is from Los Angeles. He's

on his way home from the army and was good enough

to stop by and visit us for a few days. He and Bobbie

were together. Buddies—is that what you say?”

“That’s right,” said Jun.

“Now, Jun.”

“Yes?”

The little man looked at Ichiro and then at his

mother, who stared stonily at no one in particular.

“Jun, as a favor to me, although I know it is not

easy for you to speak of it, I want you to tell us about

Bobbie.”

51 NO Y NO &

Jun stood up quickly. “Gosh, I don’t know.” He

looked with tender concern at Mrs. Kumasaka.

“It is all right, Jun. Please, just this once more.”

“Well, okay.” He sat down again, rubbing his

hands thoughtfully over his knees. “The way it hap

pened, Bobbie and I, we had just gotten back to the

rest area. Everybody was feeling good because there

was a lot of talk about the Germans’ surrendering.

All the fellows were cleaning their equipment. We’d

been up in the lines for a long time and everything

was pretty well messed up. When you’re up there

getting shot at, you don’t worry much about how

crummy your things get, but the minute you pull

back, they got to have inspection. So, we were cleaning

things up. Most of us were cleaning our rifles because

that’s something you learn to want to do no matter

how anything else looks. Bobbie was sitting beside me

and he was talking about how he was going to medical

school and become a doctor—”

A sob wrenched itself free from the breast of the

mother whose son was once again dying, and the

snow-white head bobbed wretchedly.

“Go on, Jun,” said the father.

Jun looked away from the mother and at the picture

on the mantel. “Bobbie was like that. Me and the

other guys, all we talked about was drinking and

girls and stuff like that because it’s important to talk

about those things when you make it back from the

front on your own power, but Bobbie, all he thought

about was going to school. I was nodding my head

and saying yeah, yeah, and then there was this noise,

No 2 No 2 52

kind of a pinging noise right close by. It scared me

for a minute and I started to cuss and said, ‘Gee, that

was damn close,’ and looked around at Bobbie. He was

slumped over with his head between his knees. I

reached out to hit him, thinking he was fooling around.

Then, when I tapped him on the arm, he fell over

and I saw the dark spot on the side of his head where

the bullet had gone through. That was all. Ping,

and he’s dead. It doesn’t figure, but it happened

just the way I’ve said.”

The mother was crying now, without shame and

alone in her grief that knew no end. And in her

bottomless grief that made no distinction as to what

was wrong and what was right and who was Japanese

and who was not, there was no awareness of the other

mother with a living son who had come to say to her

you are with shame and grief because you were not

Japanese and thereby killed your son but mine is big

and strong and full of life because I did not weaken

and would not let my son destroy himself uselessly

and treacherously.

Ichiro's mother rose and, without a word, for no

ºwords would ever pass between them again, went out

(of the house which was a part of America.

Mr. Kumasaka placed a hand on the rounded back

of his wife, who was forever beyond consoling, and

spoke gently to Ichiro: “You don’t have to say any

thing. You are truly sorry and I am sorry for you.”

“I didn’t know,” he said pleadingly.

“I want you to feel free to come and visit us when

53 NO Y NO &

ever you wish. We can talk even if your mother's

convictions are different.”

“She’s crazy. Mean and crazy. Goddamned Jap!”

He felt the tears hot and stinging.

“Try to understand her.”

Impulsively, he took the little man's hand in his

own and held it briefly. Then he hurried out of the

house which could never be his own.

His mother was not waiting for him. He saw her

tiny figure strutting into the shadows away from the

illumination of the street lights and did not attempt

to catch her.

As he walked up one hill and down another, not

caring where and only knowing that he did not want

to go home, he was thinking about the Kumasakas

and his mother and kids like Bob who died brave deaths

fighting for something which was bigger than Japan

or America or the selfish bond that strapped a son

to his mother. Bob,and a lot of others with no more

to lose or gain than he, had not found it necessary to

think about whether or not to go in the army. When

the time came, they knew what was right for them

and they went.

What had happened to him and the others who

faced the judge and said: You can’t make me go in the

army because I’m not an American or you wouldn’t

have plucked me and mine from a life that was good

and real and meaningful and fenced me in the desert

like they do the Jews in Germany and it is a puzzle

why you haven’t started to liquidate us though you

No 2 No 3 54

might as well since everything else has been destroyed.

And some said: You, Mr. Judge, who supposedly

represent justice, was it a just thing to ruin a hundred

thousand lives and homes and farms and businesses

and dreams and hopes because the hundred thousand

were a hundred thousand Japanese and you couldn’t

have loyal Japanese when Japan is the country you’re

fighting and, if so, how about the Germans and

Italians that must be just as questionable as the Japa

nese or we wouldn’t be fighting Germany and Italy?

Round them up. Take away their homes and cars and

beer and spaghetti and throw them in a camp and

what do you think they’ll say when you try to draft

them into your army of the country that is for life,

liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? If you think

we're the same kind of rotten Japanese that dropped

the bombs on Pearl Harbor, and it’s plain that you

do or I wouldn’t be here having to explain to you why

it is that I won’t go and protect sons-of-bitches like

you, I say you’re right and banzai three times and we’ll

sit the war out in a nice cell, thank you.

And then another one got up and faced the judge

and said meekly: I can’t go because my brother is in

the Japanese army and if I go in your army and have

to shoot at them because they’re shooting at me, how

do I know that maybe I won’t kill my own brother?

I’m a good American and I like it here but you can

see that it wouldn’t do for me to be shooting at my

own brother; even if he went back to Japan when

I was two years old and couldn’t know him if I saw

him, it’s the feeling that counts, and what can a

55 NO Y NO Y

fellow do? Besides, my mom and dad said I shouldn’t

and they ought to know.

And after the fellow with the brother in the army

of the wrong country sat down, a tall, skinny one

sneered at the judge and said: I’m not going in the

army because wool clothes give me one helluva bad

time and them O.D. things you make the guys wear

will drive me nuts and I’d end up shooting bastards

like you which would be too good but then you'd

only have to shoot me and I like living even if it's in

striped trousers as long as they aren’t wool. The judge,

who looked Italian and had a German name, repeated

the question as if the tall, skinny one hadn't said

anything yet, and the tall, skinny one tried again

only, this time, he was serious. He said: I got it all

figured out. Economics, that’s what. I hear this guy

with the stars, the general of your army that cleaned

the Japs off the Coast, got a million bucks for the job.

All this bull about us being security risks and saboteurs

and Shinto freaks, that’s for the birds and the dumb

heads. The only way it figures is the money angle.

How much did they give you, judge, or aren’t your

fingers long enough? Cut me in. Give me a cut and

I’ll go fight your war single-handed.

Please, judge, said the next one. I want to go in

your army because this is my country and I’ve always

lived here and I was all-city guard and one time I

wrote an essay for composition about what it means

to me to be an American and the teacher sent it into

a contest and they gave me twenty-five dollars, which

proves that I’m a good American. Maybe I look

No 2 NO & 56

Japanese and my father and mother and brothers

and sisters look Japanese, but we’re better Americans

than the regular ones because that’s the way it has

to be when one looks Japanese but is really a good

American. We’re not like the other Japanese who

aren’t good Americans like us. We’re more like you

and the other, regular Americans. All you have to do

is give us back our home and grocery store and let my

kid brother be all-city like me. Nobody has to know.

We can be Chinese. We’ll call ourselves Chin or Yang

or something like that and it’ll be the best thing

you’ve ever done, sir. That’s all, a little thing. Will

you do that for one good, loyal American family?

We’ll forget the two years in camp because anybody

can see it was all a mistake and you didn’t really

mean to do it and I’m all yours.

There were others with reasons just as flimsy and

unreal and they had all gone to prison, where the

months and years softened the unthinking bitterness

and let them see the truth when it was too late. For

the one who could not go because Japan was the

country of his parents’ birth, there were a thousand

Bobs who had gone into the army with a singleness

of purpose. In answer to the tall, skinny one who

spouted economics, another thousand with even

greater losses had answered the greetings. For each

and every refusal based on sundry reasons, another

thousand chose to fight for the right to continue to

be Americans because homes and cars and money

could be regained but only if they first regained their

rights as citizens, and that was everything.

57 NO Y NO &

And then Ichiro thought to himself: My reason was

all the reasons put together. I did not go because I -

was weak and could not do what I should have done.

It was not my mother, whom I have never really

known. It was me, myself. It is done and there can

be no excuse. I remember Kenzo, whose mother was

in the hospital and did not want him to go. The

doctor told him that the shock might kill her. He

went anyway, the very next day, because though he

loved his mother he knew that she was wrong, and

she did die. And I remember Harry, whose father

had a million-dollar produce business, and the old

man just boarded everything up because he said

he’d rather let the trucks and buildings and warehouses

rot than sell them for a quarter of what they were

worth. Harry didn’t have to stop and think when his

number came up. Then there was Mr. Yamaguchi,

who was almost forty and had five girls. They would

never have taken him, but he had to go and talk

himself into a uniform. I remember a lot of people

and a lot of things now as I walk confidently through

the night over a small span of concrete which is part

of the sidewalks which are part of the city which is

part of the state and the country and the nation that

is America. It is for this that I meant to fight, only

the meaning got lost when I needed it most badly.

Then he was on Jackson Street and walking down

the hill. Through the windows of the drugstore, the

pool hall, the cafés and taverns, he saw groups of

young Japanese wasting away the night as nights were

meant to be wasted by young Americans with change

No 2 No 2 58

in their pockets and a thirst for cokes and beer and

pinball machines or fast cars and de luxe hamburgers

and cards and dice and trim legs. He recognized a

face, a smile, a gesture, or a sneer, but they were not

for him, for he walked on the outside and familiar

faces no longer meant friends. He walked quickly,

guiltily avoiding a chance recognition of himself by

someone who remembered him.

Minutes later he was pounding on the door of the

darkened grocery store with home in the back. It

was almost twelve o’clock and he was surprised to

see his father weave toward the door fully dressed and

fumble with the latch. He smelled the liquor as soon

as he stepped inside. He had known that his father

took an occasional drink, but he’d never seen him

drunk and it disturbed him.

“Come in, come in,” said the father thickly, moments

after Ichiro was well inside. After several tries, his

father flipped the latch back into place.

“I thought you’d be in bed, Pa.”

The old man stumbled toward the kitchen. “Wait

ing for you, Ichiro. Your first night home. I want to

put you to bed.”

“Sure. Sure. I know how it is.”

They sat down in the kitchen, the bottle between

them. It was half empty. On the table was also

a bundle of letters. By the cheap, flimsy quality of

the envelopes, he knew that they were from Japan.

One of the letters was spread out before his father as

if he might have been interrupted while perusing it.

59 NO & NO &

“Ichiro.” His father grinned kindly at him.

“Yeah? "

“Drink. You have got to drink a little to be a man,

you know.” -

“Sure, Pa.” He poured the cheap blend into a water

glass and took a big gulp. “God,” he managed to

say with the liquor burning a deep rut all the way

down, “how can you drink this stuff?”

“Only the first one or two is bad. After that, it

gets easier.”

Ichiro regarded the bottle skeptically: “You drink

all this?”

“Yes, tonight.”

“That’s quite a bit.”

“Ya, but I finish.”

“What are you celebrating?”

“Life.”

“What?”

“Life. One celebrates Christmas and New Year’s

and Fourth of July, that is all right, but life I can

celebrate any time. I celebrate life.” Not bothering

with a glass, he gurgled from the bottle.

“What's wrong, Pa?”

The old man waved his arm in a sweeping gesture.

“Nothing is wrong, Ichiro. I just celebrate you.

You are home and is it wrong for me to be happy?

Of course not. I am happy. I celebrate.”

“Things pretty tough?”

“No. No. We don’t get rich, but we make enough.”

“What do you do with yourself?”

“Do?”

No Y NO 2 60

“Yeah. I remember you used to play Go with Mr.

Kumasaka all the time. And Ma was always making

me run after you to the Tandos. You were never

home before the war. You still do those things?”

“Not so much.”

“You go and visit them?”

“Once in a while.”

He watched his father, who was fiddling with the

letter and avoiding his gaze. “Many people think

Japan won the war?”

“Not so many.”

“What do you think?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I read, I hear, I see.”

“Why don’t you tell Ma?”

The old man looked up suddenly and Ichiro thought

that he was going to burst out with laughter. Just as

quickly, he became soberly serious. He held up the

thick pile of letters. “Your mama is sick, Ichiro, and

she has made you sick and I am sick because I cannot

do anything for her and maybe it is I that is somehow

responsible for her sickness in the first place. These

letters are from my brothers and cousins and nephews

and people I hardly knew in Japan thirty-five years

ago, and they are from your mama’s brother and

two sisters and cousins and friends and uncles and

people she does not remember at all. They all beg for

help, for money and sugar and clothes and rice and

tobacco and candy and anything at all. I read these

letters and drink and cry and drink some more be

61 NO 2 NO &

cause my own people are suffering so much and there

is nothing I can do.”

“Why don’t you send them things?”

“Your mama is sick, Ichiro. She says these letters

are not from Japan, that they were not written by

my brothers or her sisters or our uncles and nephews

and nieces and cousins. She does not read them any

more. Propaganda, she says. She won’t let me send

money or food or clothing because she says it’s all

a trick of the Americans and that they will take them.

I can send without her knowing, but I do not.—It

is not for me to say that she-is-wreng—even-iſ-Hénew so.”

The father picked up the bottle and poured the

liquor into his throat. His face screwed up and tears

came to his eyes.

“I’m going to sleep, Pa.” Ichiro stood up and

looked for a long time at his drunken father who could

not get drunk enough to forget.

“Ichiro.”

“Yeah?”

His father mumbled to the table: “I am sorry that

you went to prison for us.”

“Sure. Forget it.” He went to the bedroom, un

dressed in the dark, and climbed into bed wondering

why his brother wasn’t sleeping.

5

No Y No 2 No 2 No 1 2 No 2 No Y NO Y NO Y

THERE IS A PERIOD between each night and

day when one dies for a few hours, néither dreaming

nor thinking nor tossing nor hating nor loving, but

dying for a little while because life progresses in just

such a way. From that sublime depth, a stranger

awakens to strain his eyes into focus on the walls of

a strange room. Where am I? he asks himself. There

is a fleeting sound of lonely panic as he juggles into

order the heavy, sleep-laden pieces of his mind's

puzzle. He is frightened because the bed is not

his own. He is in momentary terror because the

walls are clean and bare and because the sounds

are not the sounds of home, and because the chill

air of a hotel room fifteen stories above the street is

not the same as the furry, stale warmth of a bedroom

occupied by three and pierced by the life-giving

fragrance of bacon and eggs sizzling in a pan down

below. Then he remembers that he is away from

home and smiles smugly as he tells himself that home

is there waiting for him forever. He goes to the window,

expands his chest, and stretches his arms to give vent

to the magnitude of his joys upon being alive and

63 NO Y NO 2

happy and at home in a hotel room a hundred miles

away, because home is as surely there as if he had never

left it.

For Ichiro, there was no intervening span of death

to still his great unrest through the darkness of night.

It was nine o’clock when he woke up and the bitterness

and profanity and hatred and fear did not have to

be reawakened. He did not have to ask himself where

he was or why because it did not matter. He was

Ichiro who had said no to the judge and had thereby

turned his back on the army and the country and

the world and his own self. He thought only that he

had felt no differently after spending his first night

in prison. On that morning, when he woke up and

saw the bars, it had not mattered at all that the bars

were there. This morning, for the first time in two

years, there were no bars, but the fact left him equally

unimpressed. The prison which he had carved out

of his own stupidity granted no paroles or pardons.

It was a prison of forever.

“Ahhhhhh.” Out of the filth of his anguished soul,

the madness welled forth in a sick and crazy scream,

loud enough to be heard in the next room.

“What is it, Ichiro, what is it?” His father hovered

hesitantly in the doorway, peering into the blind

drawn gloom of the bedroom with startled eyes.

“Nothing.” He felt like crying.

“You are not ill?”

“No.”

“Not sick someplace for sure?”

“No, goddammit, I’m fine, Pa, fine.”

No 2 NO & 64

“That is all right then. I thought something was

wrong.”

Poor, miserable old fool, he thought. How in the

world could he understand? “I’m okay, Pa,” he said

kindly, “hungry, that’s all, hungry and . . . and

glad to be home.”

“Ya, you get used to it. I cook right away.” He

smiled, relief flowing to his face, and he turned back

hastily into the kitchen.

When he dressed and went through the kitchen to

the bathroom, it was his father who stood beside the

stove with frying pan in hand. When he came back

out and sat at the table, his mother was there.

“Good morning, Ichiro. You slept well?” She

sounded cheerful.

The eggs were done the way he liked them, sunny

side up with the edges slightly browned. He felt

grateful to his father for remembering. “Yeah, I slept

pretty good,” he answered as he broke the yolks.

“You are pleased to be at home and I am pleased

that you are here.”

“Sure. I feel like singing.”

She sat rigidly with hands palms-down on her lap.

“I did not tell you about Kumasaka-san's boy be

cause it was not important.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Then you understand. It is well.”

“No, I don’t understand, but it doesn’t matter.”

“Oh?” Her mouth pressed into a tight little frown.

“What is it you do not understand?”

“A lot of things, a whole lot of things.”

~ * … " -

or ºf *S \ } 7

~ . . . . J - , M. k

tº Ayº 2 " . . . . . .x S º \ | 0 jº * | 2 \ \º tº 65 No 2 No 2

“I will tell you. The Germans did not kill Kuma

saka-san's boy. It was not he who went to war with

a gun and it was not he who was shot by the Ger

mans—”

“Of course not. You heard last night when the

fellow told about it. It was an accident.”

Patiently, she waited until he had spoken. “Ger

mans, Americans, accident, those things are not

important. It was not the boy but the mother who

is also the son and it is she who is to blame and it is

she who is dead because the son did not know.”T

“I just know that Bob is dead.”

“No, the mother. It is she who is dead because she

did not conduct herself as a Japanese and, no longer

being Japanese, she is dead.” -

“And the father? What about Mr. Kumasaka?”

“Yes, dead also.”

“And you, Maſſ What about you and Pa?”

“We are Japanese as always.”

“And me?”

“You are my son who is also Japanese.”

“That makes everything all right, does it? That

makes it all right that Bob is dead, that the war was

fought and hundreds of thousands killed and maimed,

and that I was two years in prison and am still

Japanese?”

“Yes.”

“What happens when I’m no longer Japanese?”

“How SO?”

“Like Bob, I mean. What happens if I sign up and

get shot up like him?”

No 2 No 2 66

“Then I will be dead too.”

“Dead like me?”

“Yes, I will be dead when you go into the army

of the Americans. I will be dead when you decide to

go into the army of the Americans. I will be dead

when you begin to cease to be Japanese and entertain

those ideas which will lead you to your decision which

will make you go into the army of the Americans.

I will be dead long before the bullet strikes you. But

you will not go, for you are my son.”

“You’re crazy.” He said it softly and deliberately,

for he wanted her to know that he meant it with all

the hatred in his soul.

Underneath the table her hands stiffened and jerked

a few inches above her lap. Her face revealed only

the same little tight frown that he had seen many

times before. He waited, hoping that she would

scream and rant and cry and denounce him, tearing

asunder with fury the slender bond that held them

together still, and set him free.

“Ah, Ichiro. I thought for a moment that you

meant it.”

“I do. I do.”

She shrugged without actually moving. “That is

what they all say. They who claim to be Japanese.

I see it in their faces and I feel it on their lips. They

say I am crazy, but they do not mean it. They say

it because they are frightened and because they envy

my strength, which is truly the strength of Japan.

They say it with the weakness which destroyed them

and their sons in a traitorous cause and they say it

67 NO Y NO Y

because they see my strength which was vast enough

to be your strength and they did not have enough for

themselves and so not enough for their sons.”

“Balls!” He leaned across the table, letting the

ugliness twist his lips and fill his voice with viciousness.

“Balls! Balls!” he shrieked, his face advancing steadily

upon hers.

A flicker of surprise, then fear. Yes, he saw it in

her eyes in the fraction of an instant before her hands

covered them. To the hands which had come forever

between them he continued to shriek: “Not your

strength, crazy woman, crazy mother of mine. Not

your stren ur madness which I have taken.

Look at me!” He gripped her wrists and wrenched

them away from her face. “I’m as crazy as you are.

See in the mirror the sameness of our madness. See

in the mirror the madness of the mother which is the

madness of the son. See. See!”

He was halfway to the bathroom door with her

when the father rushed in to intervene. “Ichiro,

Ichiro,” he gasped excitedly as he extended a feeble

hand.

With his fury at a sickening peak, Ichiro released

the skinny wrists and arced his arm in a wild swing

at his father. The mother collapsed limply to the

floor and the father, propelled by the painful blow,

collided against the wall.

For long moments he stood between them as the

anger drained out of his body. He watched his mother

rise and go out to the store, her face once again calm

and guileless.

NO Y NO 2 68

“Pa. I’m sorry, Pa.” He put his arm around his

father, wanting to hug him like a baby.

“Ya, Ichiro,” the old man uttered shakily, “I am

sorry too.”

“Lost my head, Pa.”

“Ya, ya. I know.” He got a bottle from the cup

board and drank greedily. Then he sat down and

offered the bottle to Ichiro.

The whisky was ugly tasting but it helped to relax

him. He looked at his father, who seemed about to

cry. “Ah, Pa, Pa. Forget it, won’t you? I’m sorry.

It just happened.”

“Ya, sure.” He smiled.

Ichiro felt better. “I’ve got to do something, Pa.

I’ll go nuts sitting around.”

“Whatever you wish, Ichiro. It will take time. I

know.”

“Where’s Freddie?”

“Freddie?”

“Yeah, Akimoto-san's boy. Where do they live?”

“Oh. Freddie. He was . . . yes. On Nineteenth.

Small, yellow apartment house on the south side.”

“I’ll go see him. I can talk to him.”

“Here, Ichiro,” said his father, placing a twenty

dollar bill on the table.

“But that’s a lot of money, Pa.. I won’t need all

that.”

“Take. Take. Go to a movie with Freddie. Eat

someplace nice. Have a good time.”

“Okay, Pa. Thanks.” He pocketed the money and

69 No 2 No 2

went through the store and on out without looking

at his mother.

The small apartment house on the south side was

not far from the bus stop. He saw it the minute he

got off the bus. He climbed up the shaky stairs and

consulted the mailboxes, which told him that the

Akimotos occupied 2-B. Although there were only

two units on each floor, six in all, he had to light a

match in the dark hallway to see the faded 2-B on

the door to the right of the stairway. He knocked

softly and waited. When no one answered, he pounded

more heavily. -

It was the door to 2-A that opened. A plump,

young Japanese woman peered into the hall and

asked not unkindly: “What you want?”

“I’m looking for Fred Akimoto. He lives here,

doesn’t he?”

The woman opened the door wider, inspecting him

in the added light. Her housecoat was baggy and dirty

and unzipped down to her waist. A baby cried far

inside. “Freddie's sleeping. He always sleeps late.

You can pound on the door until he hears you, or,”

she grinned at him, “you’re really welcome to come

sit in my place and wait. Freddie's a good friend of

mine.”

“Thanks just the same, but I’m kinda anxious to

see him.”

“Tell Freddie I’ll have breakfast for him. You come

with him, okay?”

No 2 NO & 70

“I’ll tell him.” He waited until she had closed the

door before he started to pound on 2-B again.

Finally he heard noises deep inside the apartment.

Footsteps padded reluctantly toward the door and

the latch snapped.

“Who is it, for crissake, who is it?” Freddie’s lean,

sleepy face peered up at him through the crack.

“Hello, Shorty. It’s Itchy.”

“Itchy boy! They let you out! About time, I say,

about time.” The door swung wide open and revealed

Freddie, small and wiry and tough. He wore a rumpled

T-shirt and nothing else.

Ichiro took the other’s hand and they shook warmly.

“What time is it?” asked Freddie as they went

through the living room and past the kitchen into

a bedroom in the back.

“Ten o’clock or thereabouts, I guess.”

“No wonder I’m sleepy. How've you been, huh?

Whatcha been doin’?”

“Just got home yesterday, Shorty. What have you

been doing? Been out pretty near a month, haven’t

you?”

“Five weeks tomorrow.” Freddie dressed hurriedly

and sat on the bed beside his guest.

“How's it been?” He was disturbed by Freddie's

nonchalance, his air of insuppressible gaiety.

“What’s what been?”

“Things. You know what I mean. I’ve been

worried.”

Standing up, Freddie whisked through his pockets

7I No 3 NO Y

and found an empty cigarette pack. “Out. Nuts. Got

Some?”

Ichiro handed over cigarettes and matches and

waited until Freddie had lighted up. “Tell me, Shorty.

I’ve got to know.”

“Crap! That’s what I’ve been tellin' 'em. I got my

life to live and they got theirs. They try to tell me

somethin', I tell 'em shit. I’m doin’ fine.”

“No trouble?”

“Trouble? Why for? You and me, we picked the

wrong side. So what? Doesn’t mean we gotta stop

livin’.”

“What have you been doing?”

Freddie looked irritated. “You asked before.”

“Well?”

“Livin'. I been havin' a good time. I didn’t rot

two years without wantin’ to catch up.”

“What happens after you catch up?”

“Maybe I won't.”

Ichiro walked over to the window and lit a cigarette.

The alley was littered with rubbish and he saw a cat

pawing through a trash can. Sitting on the sill, he

turned again to Freddie. He wanted to talk to Freddie,

who used to be a regular worrier. He wanted to get

under the new protective shell of brave abandon

and seek out the answers which he knew were never

really to be buried. “Freddie.”

The small, muscular shoulders sagged a little.

“Okay, Itchy. It’s eatin’ my guts out too. Is that

whatcha wanta hear? Is that why you come to see

No 3 NO 2 72

me? You miserable son of a bitch. Better you shoulda

got a Kraut bullet in your balls.”

“That bad, is it?”

Freddie looked at Ichiro and in the face of the little

man were haggard creases attesting to his lonely

struggle. “You know what I done the first week?”

“Tell me.”

“Just what I’m doin’ now. I sat here on my fanny

for a whole week, thinkin’. And I come to a con

clusion.”

“Yes?” -

“I figgered my brains are in my fanny. Same place

yours are.”

Looking out the window, he saw the cat still

searching in the trash can. He chuckled, disappointed

because Freddie offered no hope, but at the same

time relieved to be assured that he was not the only

one floundering in heavy seas.

“The second week,” continued Freddie, “I went

next door to borrow some smokes. I stayed there all

day until the old man came home.”

“2-Ap?”

“Huh?”

“She told me to tell you she’ll fix breakfast.”

Freddie blushed. “Funny, ain’t it? I’m the guy what

used to be so damn particular about dames. She’s

nothin’ but a fat pig. Can’t get enough of it. Bet she

gave you the once over.”

“How long do you expect to get away with it?

Same house, same floor. Don’t push your luck.”

“Aw, can it. I know what you’re thinkin’. Me, I

73 No 2 No 2

don’t give a damn. In the meanwhile, I got somethin'

to hang on to.”

Ichiro pictured little Freddie in bed with the fat

woman in 2-A and couldn’t resist a smile.

“Sure, funny as hell, but I’ll lay you two bits you’ll

wish you had an anchor like her before the week’s

out. She don’t care who I am or what I done or where!

I been. All she wants is me, the way I am, with no

questions.”

“Sure, I see your point.”

“No, you don’t. Me, I been out and around. I seen

Kaz one day. Used to shoot megs together. That’s

how long I known him. He’s goin’ to school on the

G.I. He was glad as hell to see me. Stuck his hand

out, just like that, kinda nervous like. He said some

thin’ about bein’ in a hurry and took off. That’s how

it is. Either they’re in a big, fat rush or they don’t

know you no more. Great life, huh?”

“I saw Eto.”

“That jerk. What'd he do? Spit on you?”

“Yeah, how did you know?”

“We got troubles, but that crud’s got more and

ain’t got sense enough to know it. Six months he was

in the army. You know that? Six lousy months and

he wangled himself a medical discharge. I been hearin’

about him. He ever try that on me, I’ll stick a knife

in him.”

“Maybe he's got a right to.”

“Nobody’s got a right to spit on you.”

Ichiro reached into his pocket and tossed the ciga

rettes to Freddie, who immediately lit another. “Keep

NO & No 2 74

them,” he said. “I’ll get some on the way home.”

“You ain’t goin' yet, are you? You just come.”

“I’ll see you again, Shorty. I want to look around

by myself. You know how it is. Maybe catch a bus

and ride all over town. I feel like it.”

“Sure, sure. Buzz me on the phone. It’s in the book.

We guys get together every Friday for poker. We can

sure use a sixth hand.”

“What guys?”

“Guys like you and me. Who else?”

“Oh.” He couldn’t hide his disappointment, and

Freddie noticed it with a frown.

“Give me a little time, Shorty. I’ll straighten out.”

As he made his way out, Freddie shouted at his

back: “You been stewin’ about it for two years. How

much time you need? Wise up, Itchy, wise up.”

No 2 No 2 No 2 No 1 3 No 2 No 2 No 2 No Y

ICHIRO STARTED waLKING down Jackson

Street, plunging down the hill with quick strides

which bore him away from Freddie, who could be of

no help to anyone else because he too was alone

against the world which he had denounced. He had

sº.º.º.º.ºnot increased his despair. Freddie was waging a shallóW struggle with a to-hell-with-the-rest-of-the

world attitude, and he wasn’t being very successful.

One could not fight an enemy who looked upon him

as much as to say: “This is America, which is for

Americans. You have spent two years in prison to

prove that you are Japanese—go to Japan!” These

unspoken words were not to be denied.

Was it possible that he, striding freely down the

street of an American city, the city of his birth and

schooling and the cradle of his hopes and dreams, had

waved it all aside beyond recall? Was it possible that

he and Freddie and the other four of the poker crowd

and all the other America-born, America-educated

Japanese who had renounced their American-ness in

a frightening moment of madness had done so ir

No 3 NO 2 76

retrievably? Was there no hope of redemption? Šurely

there must be. He was still a citizen. He could still

vote. He was free to travel and work and study and J

marry and drink and gamble.|People forgot and, in T’

[forgetting, forgaveJTime would ease the rupture whic

now separated him from the young Japanese wh

were Americans because they had fought for Americ

|and believed in it. And time would destroy the ol

Japanese who, living in America and being denie

a place as citizens, nevertheless had become in

extricably a part of the country which by its vastnes

s 9. and goodness and fairness and plenitude drew the \{ s' into its fold, or else they would not have understoo

sy sº why it was that their sons, who looked as Japanese a

N they themselves, were not Japanese at all but Ameri ~

cans of the country America. In time, he thought,

in time th ill again be a place for me. I will buy

*::::::::::::::###. the

street holding my son’s hand and people will stop and

talk with us about the weather and the ball games

and the elections. I will take my family to visit the

family of Freddie, whom I have just left as I did

because time has not yet done its work, and our

families together will visit still another family whose

father was two years in the army of America instead

of two years in prison and it will not matter about

the past, for time will have erased it from our memories

and there will be only joy and sorrow and sickness,

which is the way things should be.

---

77 NO & NO &

someday hold an unquestioned place for him, his mind

said no, it is not to be, and the castle tumbled and

was swallowed up by the darkness of his soul, for time

might cloud the memories of others but the trouble

was inside of him and time would not soften that.

He was at Fourteenth Street where Jackson leveled

off for a block before it resumed its gradual descent

toward the bay. A bus turned into the stop and he

hurled himself into it. There were plenty of seats and

he was glad for that because he could not have suffered

a crowd. Sitting next to the window and glimpsing the

people and houses and automobiles, he gradually felt

more at ease. As the bus sped down Jackson Street

and made a turn at Fourth to go through downtown,

Ichiro visualized the blocks ahead, picturing in his

mind the buildings he remembered and reciting the

names of the streets lying ahead, and he was pleased

that he remembered so much unerringly.

Not until the bus had traversed the business district

and pointed itself toward the northeast did he realize

that he was on the same bus which he used to take

every morning as a university student. There had been

such a time and he vividly brought to mind, with a

hunger that he would never lose, the weighty volumes

—º. side so that the

cloth of his pants became thin and frayed, and the

sandwiches in a brown grocery bag and the slide rule

with the leather case which hung from his belt like the

sword of learning which it was, for he was going to

become an engineer and it had not mattered that

Japan would soon be at war with America. To be a

No 2 No 2 78

student in America was a wonderful thing. \To be a

student in America studying engineering was a beauti

ful life. That, in itself, was worth defending from

anyone and anything which dared to threaten it with

change or extinction. Where was the slide rule, h

asked himself, where was the shaft of exacting and

thrilling discovery when I needed it most? If only I

had pictured it and felt it in my hands, I might well

have made the right decision/for the seeing and feeling

of it would have pushed out the bitterness with the

greenness of the grass on the campus and the hardness

of the chairs in the airy classrooms with the black

boards stretched wall-to-wall behind the professor,

and the books and the sandwiches and the bus rides

coming and going. I would have gone into the army

for that and I would have shot and killed, and shot

and killed some more, because I was happy when I

was a student with the finely calculated white sword

at my side. But I did not remember or I could not

remember because, when one is born in America and

learning to love it more and more every day without

thinking it, it is not an easy thing to discover suddenly

that being American is a terribly incomplete thing if

one's face is not white and one's parents are Japanese

of the country Japan which attacked America. It is

like being pulled asunder by a whirling tornado and

one does not think of a slide rule though that may

be the thing which will save one. No, one does not

remember, an —and

still the answer is there unchanged and unchallenged.

79 NO 2 NO 2

—I did not remember and Freddie did not remember.

But Bob did, and his friend, who talks of Bob’s dying

because the father wishes it, did, and so did a lot of

others who had no more or no less reason than I.

The bus stopped at the corner with the fountain

lunch where he had had many a hamburger or coke

or black coffee in cups that were solid and heavy but

did not hold much coffee. From there he walked

naturally toward the campus and on up the wide,

curving streets which soon branched off into countless

narrow walks and drives among countless buildings

of Gothic structure which had flying buttresses and

pointed arches and piers but failed as authentic Gothic

because everyone called it bastard Gothic with laughing

familiarity as though the buildings were imperfect

children of their own.

As if he had come to the university expressly for the

purpose, Ichiro went directly to the offices of the

engineering school. He found the name Baxter Brown

on the wall directory and proceeded up the stairs to

the assistant professor's office in a remote corner of

the building which was reached finally by climbing

a steep flight of stairs no more than twenty inches

wide. By their very narrowness, the stairs seemed to

avoid discovery by the mass of students and thereby

afforded the occupant of the office the seclusion to

which the learned are entitled.

Mr. Brown, grayer and heavier, sat behind a desk

impressively covered with books and journals and

No 2 NO 2 80

papers. He gaped at Ichiro in that vague, suddenly

alert way that one instinctively manages when startled

unexpectedly from a dozing mood.

“Professor Brown?” He knew it was Professor Brown

and he hadn’t meant to make it a question.

The professor wrenched himself out of his chair

and came forth energetically with extended arm.

“Yes, yes, have a chair.”

He sat and waited until the professor got behind the

desk. “I guess you don’t remember me. It’s been some

time since I was one of your students.”

“Of course I remember. I knew the moment you

stepped inside. Let me think now. No, no, don’t tell

me.” The professor studied him thoughtfully. “You’re

Su . . . Suzu . . . no . . . Tsuji . . .”

“It’s Yamada. Ichiro Yamada.”

“That’s it. Another minute and I would have had

it. How are you, Mr. Yamada?”

“Fine, sir.”

“Good. Lot of you fellows coming back. Everything

all right?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Tough about the evacuation. I really

hated to see it happen. I suppose you’re disturbed

about it.”

“No, sir. Not too much, that is.”

“Of course you are. Who wouldn’t be? Families

uprooted, businesses smashed, educations interrupted.

You’ve got a right to be sore.”

“Water under the bridge now.”

Professor Brown smiled and leaned back in his

{}I NO Y NO &

chair, relaxing. “Admire you for saying that. You

fellows are as American as I am. And you’ roved

it. That outfit in Italy. Greatest there ever was. You

were there too, I suppose?” - -

“No, I—”

“Over in the Pacific then? Interrogating prisoners

I bet.”

“Well, no. You see—”

“Sure. We can’t all get in. I was in the first one

myself. Did some consulting work for the navy this

last one, but as a civilian. Still, every bit helps. Good

to see you’re thinking about coming back to the

university.”

Relieved to get off the touchy matter of war and

who was in it and who wasn’t and, if not, why and

so on until it was too late to turn and run, Ichiro

spoke quickly: “Yes, sir, I’m thinking seriously about

it. It’ll probably take me a little time to adjust my

self . . .”

“Everybody worries about that. No point to it.

It’ll come back in no time at all. You just pick up

where you left off and you won’t have any trouble.

I’ve talked plenty of fellows out of repeating courses

because they think they’ve forgotten so much and,

you know, they all come back and thank me for it.

You fellows are older and you’ve matured and you

know what you want. Makes a whale of a difference,

I’ll tell you. You haven’t forgotten a thing—not a

thing. It’ll be there when you need it. Take my word

for it.”

“If you say so, but—”

No 2 NO 2 $2

“I say so. What were you in? Double E? Mechanical?

Civil?”

“Civil.”

“Makes no difference, really. Big opportunities in

any branch. Too bad you’re late for this quarter.”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Professor Brown stood up and extended

his hand, “nice seeing you again. Drop in any time.”

Ichiro took the hand and while being ushered to

the door muttered something about the professor's

being good enough to spend time with him. Outside

the office and alone again, he went down the narrow

stairs and hurried outside.

That wasn’t the way I wanted it to happen, he

thought. What happened? He was nice enough. Shook

hands, talked, smiled. Still, it was all wrong. It was

like meeting someone you knew in a revolving door,

you going one way and the friend going the other.

You smiled, maybe shouted “Hi’’ and then you were

outside and he was swallowed up by the building. It

was seeing without meeting, talking without hearing,

smiling without feeling. We didn’t talk about the

weather at all only that’s what it felt like all the way

through. Was it him or was it me? Him or me? He

or I? Brown or Itchy? It wasn’t Brown, of course.

Brown was heavier, his hair grayer, but he was still

Brown of the engineering school of the university of

the world of students and slide rules and he was Brown

then and now of that tiny office with the books and

papers which was cut off from the rest of the world

by the narrow stairs which one would not think to

$3 No Y NO Y

climb unless he was six and curious and thought that

the stairs led to the roof and the big blue sky. No,

Brown is still Brown. It is I who reduces conversation

to the inconsequential because Brown is of that life

which I have forfeited and, forfeiting it, have lost the

right to see and hear and become excited over things

which are of that wonderful past.

And then he crossed the street and did not look

back at the buildings and students and curved lanes

and grass which was the garden in the forsaken land.

He felt empty and quietly sad and hungry.

He was halfway through his second hamburger,

sitting on the stool at the counter, when Kenji placed

a hand on his shoulder.

Ichiro turned and looked into the smiling face, the

pleasant, thoughtful, old face of Kenji, who was also

twenty-five.

“Ichiro, is it not?” It was said softly, much more

softly than he had known the shy, unassuming Kenji

to speak.

“Yes, and you’re Ken.”

“Same one. At least, what’s left of me,” said Kenji,

shifting the cane from his right to his left hand and

shaking with Ichiro.

So Kenji had gone too. Or had he? He hoped that

it was an automobile accident or something else that

had brought on the injury which necessitated the

cane and inspired the remark. “Join me, Ken. We

can talk,” he said, displaying his hamburger.

“I’ve already had lunch, but I’ll go for another

No 2 NO 2 $4

coffee.” The stools were high, and he had to hook

his cane to the counter and lift himself up with both

armS.

“Going to school?”

“Yes, I guess you could call it that.” The waitress

came and he ordered coffee, black.

“What does that mean?”

“I’m enrolled. I go when I feel like it and most of

the time I don’t. How about you?”

“No. Just looking around.”

“Feel the same?”

“HOW’s that?”

“Things. You’ve probably been walking around

the campus, trying to catch the same smells and

sounds and the other things which you’ve been thinking

about all the time the government kept you away from

Seattle. Is it still the same? Can you start back to

school tomorrow and pick up just where you left off?”

“No, it’s not the same and I’m not going back.”

“Why?”

“Well, because it’s not the same. Or rather, I’m

not the same.”

Kenji sipped his coffee gingerly. “So what are your

plans?”

“Haven’t got any.”

“That makes it nice.”

“DOes it?”

“Sure.”

“Why?”

“I haven’t any either.”

They left the café and walked slowly to Kenji's car,

$5 NO Y NO &

for Kenji could not hurry on his bad leg, which was

stiff and awkward and not like his own at all. Ichiro

felt he should ask about it but could not bring himself

to do so.

The new Oldsmobile was parked by a meter with

the flag up to indicate that the time had expired.

There was a ticket on the windshield, which Kenji

removed with the rubber tip of his cane. The pink ticket

floated down and under the car.

“Is that the way to do it?”

“My way.”

“Get away with it?”

“Sometimes.”

They got in and started down the street. Ichiro

sniffed the new upholstery and touched a finger to the

shiny, spotless dash. “New?”

“Yes.”

“These things must cost a fortune these days.”

“It’s a present.”

“Must be a nice guy,” he said, remembering Kenji’s

father, who had known only poverty and struggle after

his wife died leaving six children.

“He is. Uncle Sam.”

Ichiro turned so that he could see Kenji better and

he saw the stiff leg extended uselessly where the gas

pedal should have been but wasn’t because it and

the brake pedal had been rearranged to accommodate

the good left leg.

“I was in, Ichiro, mostly in hospitals. I got this

for being a good patient.”

“I See.”

NO & No Y $6

“It wasn’t worth it.” He started to slow down for

a red light and, seeing it turn green, pressed on the

accelerator. The car responded beautifully, the power

in the engine throwing the vehicle forward with

smooth effort.

Ichiro looked out at the houses, the big, roomy

houses of brick and glass which belonged in magazines

and were of that world which was no longer his to

dream about. Kenji could still hope. A leg more or

less wasn’t important when compared with himself, e and perfect but only an empty

—given both legs to changeshell. He would have

places with Kenji.

- m I a hero?”

“What?”

“They gave me a medal, too. Ever hear of the

Silver Star?” Kenji was talking to him and, yet, he

was talking to himself. Ichiro felt drawn to the soft

spoken veteran who voluntarily spoke of things that

the battle-wise and battle-scarred were thought not

to discuss because they had been through hell and

hell was not a thing which a man kept alive in himself.

If Eto had been a brave man, if Eto had been wounded

and given a medal, he would have dramatized his

bravery to any and all who could be cornered into

listening, but he was not a brave man and so he would

never have gone into battle and displayed the sort

of courage of which one might proudly speak.

There was no trace of the braggart as Kenji con

tinued: “A medal, a car, a pension, even an education.

Just for packing a rifle. Is that good?”

87 No 2 No 2

“Yes, it’s good.”

Kenji turned and watched him long enough to

make him feel nervous.

“Better watch the road,” he warned.

“Sure.” Kenji looked through the windshield and

bit his lower lip thoughtfully.

“Ken.”

“Yes?”

“Tell me about it.”

The small man behind the wheel raised the leg

which was not his own and let it fall with a thud to

the floor board. “About this?”

“If you will. If it isn’t too painful.”

“No, it’s not painful at all. Talking about it doesn’t

hurt. Not having it doesn’t hurt. But it hurts where

it ought to be. Sometimes I think about killing myself.”

“Why?” There was anger in his voice.

“What makes you say why that way?”

“I didn’t mean it to sound the way it did.”

“Of course you did. I don’t say that about killing

myself to everybody. Sometimes it scares people.

Sometimes it makes them think I’m crazy. You got

angry right away and I want to know why.”

“Tell me about it first.”

“Sure.” He turned the car into a park and drove

slowly along a winding road, with trees and neat,

green grass on both sides of them. “It’s not important

how I lost the leg. What's important are the eleven

inches.”

“I don’t understand that about the eleven inches.”

“That’s what’s left.”

No 2 NO 2 {}{}

“I See.”

“Do you? Do you really, Ichiro?”

“I think so.”

A mother and a child strolled across the road ahead

of them and Kenji slowed down more than neces

sary. “What I mean is, I’ve got eleven inches to go

and you’ve got fifty years, maybe sixty. Which would

you rather have?”

“I don’t quite follow you, but I’ll settle for eleven

inches.” -

“Oh?” Kenji was surprised.

Ichiro regarded the thin, sensitive face carefully

and said bluntly: “I wasn’t in the army, Ken. I was

in jail. I’m a no-no boy.”

There was a silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Ichiro could tell instantly that it did not matter to

Kenji, who drove the new Oldsmobile aimlessly through

the park because it was as good a place as any.

“Still,” he said finally, “you’ve got your life ahead

of you.”

“Have I?”

“I should think so.”

“Would you trade places with me? I said I would

with you.”

Kenji laughed softly. “I’ll forget you said that.”

“No, I meant it.”

“Let me tell you about the eleven inches first.”

“I’m listening.”

Rolling down the window, Kenji let the cool air

blow in on them. “Turned out to be a pretty nice

day.”

$9 No 2 No 1

Ichiro waited without answering.

“The doctors didn’t have to work too hard. The

machine gun had done a pretty good job. They were

pretty proud about having saved my knee. Makes

things a lot easier with a sound knee, you know.”

“Yes, that’s not hard to see.”

“They gave me a leg and it worked out pretty well,

only, after a while, it started to hurt. I went back into

the hospital and it turned out that there’s something

rotten in my leg that’s eating it away. So they cut

off a little more and gave me a new leg. As you’ve

probably guessed by now, it wasn’t long before I was

back in and they whacked off another chunk. This

time they took off more than they had to so as to

make sure they got all the rottenness. That was five

months ago. A couple of days ago I noticed the pains

coming back.”

“Bad?”

“No, but it’s starting.”

“Does that mean . . .”

“Yes. I’ll go back and they’ll chop again. Then,

maybe, I’ll only have eight inches to trade for your

fifty or sixty years.”

“Oh.”

“Still want to trade?”

Ichiro shuddered and Kenji rolled up the window.

“How much time do they give you?”

“Depends, of course. Maybe the rottenness will go

away and I’ll live to a ripe old age.”

“If not?”

“They say a fellow ought to trade in a car every

No Y NO Y 90

third year to get the most out of it. My brother can

take care of that.”

“How long?”

“Two years at the most.”

“You’ll get well. They’ve got ways.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” said Kenji and

drove faster until they were out of the park and once

again headed toward Jackson Street.

They didn’t talk, because there was nothing to say.

For a brief moment Ichiro felt a strange exhilaration.

He had been envying Kenji with his new Oldsmobile,

which was fixed to be driven with a right leg that

wasn’t there any more, because the leg that wasn’t

there had been amputated in a field hospital, which

meant that Kenji was a veteran of the army of America

and had every right to laugh and love and hope, be

CauSe could do that even if one of his

gone. . a leg that was eating itself away until it | would consume the man himself in a matter of a few

| years was something else, for hobbling toward death

on a cane and one good leg seemed far more disastrous

\ than having both legs and an emptiness that might

conceivably still be filled. - - - --

He gripped his knees with his hands, squeezing the

hard soundness of the bony flesh and muscles, and

fought off the sadness which seemed only to have

deepened after the moment of relief. Kenji had two

years, maybe a lifetime if the thing that was chewing

away at him suddenly stopped. But he, Ichiro, had

stopped living two years ago.

I’ll change with you, Kenji, he thought. Give me

9I No 2 NO &

the stump which gives you the right to hold your

head high. Give me the eleven inches which are be

ginning to hurt again and bring ever closer the fear

of approaching death, and give me with it the fullness - D.

of yourself which is also yours because you were manº \\

enough to wish the thing which destroyed your leg

and, perhaps, you with it but, at the same time, made -

it so that you can put your one good foot in the dirt Sº

of America and know that the wet coolness of it is yours A. beyond a single doubt. “)

“I like you, Ichiro,” said Kenji, breaking the silence.

Ichiro smiled, a little embarrassed. “I could say the

same about you,” he said.

“We’ve both got big problems, bigger than most

people. That ought to mean something.”

“Whose is bigger?”

“Huh?”

“I was thinking all the time we were silent and I

decided that, were it possible, I might very well trade

with you.”

“For the eleven inches or for the seven or eight

that’ll be left after the next time?”

“Even for two inches.”

“Oh.” They were getting close to Ichiro's home and

Kenji took his time, as if reluctant to part with his

friend.

Soon, however, they were in front of the grocery

Store.

“Well?” asked Ichiro, opening the door.

“Mine is bigger than yours in a way and, then

again, yours is bigger than mine.”

No 2 NO & 92

“Thanks for the lift,” he said and climbed out onto

the sidewalk.

“I’ll pick you up tonight if you got nothing better

to do,” said Kenji.

“That’ll be fine.”

He watched the Oldsmobile pull away and then

pushed open the door which jingled the bell of the

grocery store with home in the back end.

His mother was at the counter ringing up a loaf of

bread and a bag of Bull Durham for a white-haired

pensioner. She glanced briefly at him, her eyes sharp

and troubled. Feeling uneasy, he made his way past

her into the kitchen.

Taro was playing solitaire at the kitchen table, his

hands mechanically flipping and shifting the cards

as if he found no enjoyment in the game. The father

sat opposite his younger son and watched, not the

cards, but the face of his son, with a kind of helpless

sadness.

He sat on the end between them and watched for

a while.

“No school?” he said finally, noticing that it was

still only a little after one o’clock.

“Keep out of it.” His brother spit the words out

angrily without taking his eyes off the cards.

Ichiro looked at his father with the unanswered

question on his face and failed still to get an answer

because the father did not remove his gaze from Taro.

“You will wait, ya? Please, Taro. It is not long.”

He turned up the ace of spades and piled several

cards in rapid succession upon it.

93 sº

His mouth still open, the father forced more words

out of it: “Mama does not understand, Taro, so you

must understand her. Try. Try to understand. Until

June. Then, if she still says no, you go. Anyway, finish

high school.”

“What’s going on?” Ichiro looked from Taro to his

father and back again and got no reply.

“That is all right, ya? June, you finish high school.

Then, if you still feel the same, I will say nothing.

Only a few months. Okay?”

“No.”

The old man sighed, the weight of the problem

noticeably too much for him. “Ahh,” he groaned,

then “Ahh” once more. He rose and got the bottle

from the cupboard and wet his throat amply. After

only a slight pause he took a second, shorter drink

and returned the bottle to the shelf. Seconds later,

he was back in the chair looking at Taro in the same

lost fashion.

Ichiro tried again: “What's going on?”

“Birthday party,’” said Taro, looking up with a

wry grin. “You gonna sing for me too?”

“I might.”

“Sure, you can get your buddies from the pen and

do it right. You can sing me happy birthday in Japa

nese. I’d go for that.”

The blood rushed to his face and it was with con

siderable difficulty that he kept himself from swinging

at his brother. “You hate me that much?”

No 2 NO & 94

“Ichiro,” said the old man and he still did not take

his eyes away from the other son.

“Yeah?”

“Taro is eighteen today. He came home at lunch

time, when he should be in school. Mama said: ‘Why

are you home?’ ‘It is my birthday,” he said. “Why are

you home?” said Mama, “why are you not in school

like you should be?” “I am eighteen and I am going

in the army,” he said. We were eating, Mama and

me, and Taro stood here beside us and said: ‘I am

eighteen and I am going in the army.’”

“Are you?” he asked his brother.

“For crissake. You want me to write it down? You

want me to send you a letter? I said I’m goin’ in the

army. You think the old man’s just talkin’? Besides,

it’s none a your business.” Extracting a red ten from

the discard pile, he played it on a black jack, which

enabled him to make several advantageous moves.

“You realize Ma won’t get over it, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

The answer did not disturb him. If he were eighteen

and in Taro's shoes he would probably do the same

thing. And not having done it when it was his to do,

there was really nothing for him to say. It was not

Taro who was rejecting them, but it was he who had

rejected Taro and, in turn, had made him a stranger

to his own parents forever.

“Think it over,” he said weakly, “give it time.”

Taro threw the cards in his hand on the table and

swept them onto the floor with an angry sweep of his

arm. “It’s been nice,” he said and he might have

95 NO Y NO &

been on the verge of tears. “I got things to do.” He

stood and looked down at Ichiro, wanting to speak

but not finding the words in himself to tell his brother

that he had to go in the army because of his brother

whose weakness made it impossible for him to do other

wise and because he did not understand what it -

about his mother—that haunted him day and night

and pulled his insides into meaningless bits and was

slowly destroying him. And it was because of these

things and because he was furiously mixed up that

he had to cut himself free and spare himself the anguish

of his brother which he knew must be there even if

he was a stranger to him, and maybe that was still

another reason why he was going.

In that brief moment when Taro looked at Ichiro

and felt these things which he could not say, Ichiro

felt them too and understood. So, when Taro stalked

into the bedroom and banged the drawers and packed

a small bag, he felt the heaviness lifting from his own

shoulders. He did not even turn to look when Taro

swept past him on the way out, for he saw in the fearful

eyes of the father the departure of the son who was

not a son but a stranger and, perhaps more rightly,

tinkled to signal the opening of the door and it tinkled

again as the door closed and shut them off from the

world that Taro had entered.

The mother uttered a single, muffled cry which was

the forgotten spark in a dark and vicious canyon and,

the spark having escaped, there was only darkness,

but a darkness which was now darker still, and the

No 2 NO & 96

meaning of her life became a little bit meaningless.

Ichiro looked at his father, who did not look as

would a father who had just lost a son, but as a man

afraid. His face paled perceptibly as the mother came

into the kitchen.

“Mama,” said the father, and he might have been

a boy the way he said it.

“We don’t have enough nickels,” she said, trying

to sound the way she would have sounded if Taro had

never been born, but it was not the same and Ichiro

felt it.

“Ya, I get,” the father almost shouted as he jumped

up. “The bank will still be open.” He threw on his

overcoat and hastily departed.

Ichiro started to pick the cards off the floor and

felt his mother's eyes on him. He took his time pur

posely, not wanting to look at her, for the strength

that was the strength of Japan had failed and he had

caught the realization of it in the cry and in the words

which she had spoken. As if suddenly sensing what

was in his mind, she quickly turned and left him

alone.

No Y NO Y NO Y NO Y 4 No 2 No 2 No 2 No 2

THERE ARE STOREs on King Street, which

is one block to the south of Jackson Street. Over the

stores are hotels housed in ugly structures of brick

more black than red with age and neglect. The stores

are cafés and open-faced groceries and taverns and

dry-goods shops, and then there are the stores with

plate-glass windows painted green or covered with

sun-faded drapes. Some bear names of exporting firms,

others of laundries with a few bundles on dusty shelves.

A few come closer to the truth by calling themselves

society or club headquarters. The names of these

latter are simple and unimaginative, for gambling

against the house, whether it be with cards or dice

or beans or dominoes, requires only a stout heart and

a hunger for the impossible. And there are many of

these, for this is Chinatown and, when the town is

wide open, one simply walks into Wing's Hand

Laundry, or Trans-Asia Exporting, Inc., or Canton

Recreation Society with the stout heart and the hunger

and there is not even a guard at the massive inner

door with the small square of one-way glass.

Inside the second door are the tables and the stacks

No 3 NO & 98

of silver dollars and the Chinese and Japanese and

Filipinos and a few stray whites, and no one is smiling

or laughing, for one does not do those things when

the twenty has dwindled to a five or the twenty is up

to a hundred and the hunger has been whetted into

a mild frenzy by greed. The dealer behind the black

jack table is a sickly, handsome Chinese, a poker

faced dignitary of the house, whose soft, nimble fingers

automatically remove bunches of five and ten and

fifteen from the silver stacks. He is master for the

moment over the kingdom of green felt, but he neither

jokes with the winners nor sympathizes with the losers,

for when the day is over and the money for the day’s

labors are in his pocket he will set aside a dollar for

his hotel room and give the rest back to the house

because his is the hunger no longer accompanied by

a stout heart, a sickness which drives him relentlessly

toward the big kill which, when attained, drives him

to the next bigger one and so on and on and on until

he is again behind the table working toward his day’s

wages from which he will set aside a dollar for the

hotel room and give the rest back to the house.

The dealer flipped up Kenji’s cards and matched

five silver dollars against the five that was bet, for the

house had eighteen and the young Japanese with the

cane held two face cards.

Ichiro watched Kenji ride the ten and hit twenty,

then forty before he pulled it in and sat out several

hands. Over at the dice table were half a dozen young

Japanese who could not have been any older than

Taro. A few were betting dimes and quarters, feeling

99 NO Y NO &

their luck with the miserliness of the beginner who

does not yet fully understand the game or the strained

impulses within his young body. And there was one

who held a fistful of bills and played with an intensity

that was fearful to watch.

“Here,” said Kenji to Ichiro, “play.” He shoved

a stack of ten silver dollars over to his friend.

“No,” he said, wanting to play very much.

Kenji did not urge him. He played five as usual

and again ran it up to forty. “For a change, I’m going

to quit while I’m ahead.” He traded the silver for four

twenties, a ten, and a five.

They walked from game to game, watching the

players for a little while.

“I feel like drinking it up,” said Kenji, looking at

Ichiro.

“Fine,” said Ichiro, wanting to say that he did not

want to go anyplace where too many would know

him and of him, for he was afraid. ~

They walked down the ugly street with the ugly

buildings among the ugly people which was a part.

of America and, at the same time, would never be

wholly America. The night was cool and dark. -

Halfway down an alley, among the forlorn stair

ways and innumerable trash cans, was the entrance

to the Club Oriental. It was a bottle club, supposedly

for members only, but its membership consisted of

an ever growing clientele. Under the guise of a private,

licensed club, it opened its door to almost everyone and

rang up hefty profits nightly.

Up the corridor flanked on both sides by walls of

No 2 NO & I00

glass brick, they approached the polished mahogany

doors. Kenji poked the buzzer and, momentarily, the

electric catch buzzed in return. They stepped from

the filthy alley and the cool night into the Club Oriental

with its soft, dim lights, its long, curving bar, its

deep carpets, its intimate tables, and its small dance

floor.

There were a few people at the bar, a few more at

the tables, and one couple on the dance floor, sliding

around effortlessly to the Ralph Flanagan tune which

was one of a hundred records offered by the massive,

colorful juke box.

It wasn’t until they had seated themselves at the

bar and finished half their first bourbons on ice that

their eyes became sufficiently accustomed to the

darkness to enable them to distinguish the faces

scattered around the club.

“I like it here,” said Kenji contentedly.

“Yeah, I see what you mean.”

Kenji sipped his drink appreciatively, knowing that

the night was long and that there would be other days

in spite of the hurting of his leg. “If I didn’t have to

sleep or eat, I’d stay right here. I’d work up to a

nice, lazy feeling and keep it there by hoisting my

arm every once in a while. That would be nice.”

“Yeah, it would.”

“For me, yes, but not for you.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been thinking about the things we said this

afternoon.”

101 No: No:

“Have you?”

“Yes, and so have you.” He looked at Ichiro with

his face already flushed from the liquor.

“Sure,” said Ichiro. “Seems like that’s all I’ve been

doing since the day I was born.”

“Don’t blame yourself.”

“Then who’s to blame?”

“Doesn’t matter. Blame the world, the Japs, the

Germans. But not yourself. You’re killing—yourself.”

“Now, you’re talking like me.” Kenji Smiled and

beckoned the bartender for refills.

“There used to be times, before the war,” said

Ichiro, “when I thought I had troubles. I remember

the first time I laid a girl. She was a redhead in my

history class. Knew her way around. I guess, actually,

she laid me. I was scared, but I was more scared after

it was done. Worried about it for weeks. I thought

I really had troubles then.”

“Sounds more like a good deal.”

“Could have been. I think about that now and

I feel good about it. If I had to do it over—” Leaving

the rest unsaid, he played with the glass in his hands.

“I feel for you,” said Kenji.

“I suppose that means you’ve decided not to change

places with me.”

“If it were possible to, no.”

“If it were, Ken, if it were and there was just half

an inch to trade for my fifty years, would you then?”

Kenji thought about that for a long while. “When

NO Y NO & I02

it comes to the last half an inch and it starts to hurt,

I’ll sell the car and spend the rest of my life sitting

here with a drink in my hand and feeling good.”

“That means no, of course.”

“That means no, yes.”

“Thanks for being honest.”

“I wish I could do something.”

“You can’t.”

“But I wish I could.”

“Nobody can.”

“I want to anyway.”

“Don’t try.”

s - “If you say so.” s & “I do.”

So they sat silently through the next drink, one

already dead but still alive and contemplating fifty

or sixty years more of dead aliveness, and the other,

living and dying slowly. They were two extremes, the

Japanese who was more American than most Ameri

cans because he had crept to the brink of death for

America, and the other who was neither Japanese nor

American because he had failed to recognize the gift

of his birthright when recognition meant everything.

The crowd was beginning to thicken now. The door

seemed continually to be buzzing and, from their

stools at the bar, they watched the laughing faces

of the newcomers, who quickly settled down at the

tables with a thirst for the drinks which would give

them the relaxation and peace they sought.

A swarthy Japanese, dressed in a pale-blue suit

that failed to conceal his short legs and awkward

I03 NO & NO &

body, came in with a good-looking white girl. He

spoke loudly and roughly, creating the commotion he

intended so that, for a moment, all eyes were upon

the couple. Seeing Kenji, he boomed out jovially:

“For crissake, if it ain’t Peg-leg. It’s sure been a helluva

long time since I seen you.” He left the girl standing

at the door and advanced upon Kenji with arms

outstretched.

“Cut it out, Bull,” said Kenji quietly. “I saw you

last night.”

Bull wedged himself between the stools with his

back to Ichiro. “How’m I doin’?” he whispered

slyly.

“She’s all right,” said Kenji examining the girl.

“C’mon, sit with us. I’ll fix you up.” Bull gave Kenji

a hearty slap.

“I’m with a friend,” said Kenji.

Bull turned around and looked at Ichiro with a

meanness which was made darker by the heavy

cheekbones and the rough stubble which defied a razor.

He wiggled out into the open with exaggerated motions

and began to brush himself furiously, “Goddammit,”

he said aloud, “brand-new suit. Damn near got it all

cruddy.”

There was a ripple of laughter and Ichiro turned and

looked at the crowd without wanting to. Someone

said something about “No-no boys don’t look so good

without the striped uniform” and that got a loud,

boisterous laugh from the corner where a group of

young Japanese who were too young to drink sat

drinking. He scanned their faces quickly and saw,

NOY NO 2 I04

among them, the unsmiling, sick-looking face of

Taro.

“Go on, Bull, your girl friend’s waiting,” said Kenji

quietly.

“What's with you, nuts or somp'n?” said Bull

wickedly.

“Go on.”

Bull regarded the lean, solemn face stubbornly but

only for a moment. “Sure, sure,” he said lightly, “a

friend of yours . . .” He paused and cast the meanness

at Ichiro once more and added: “ . . . is a friend of

yours.” Grinning at the crowd as though he were a

performer who had just done his bit, he returned to

his girl, who had been primping ostentatiously all the

while.

Ichiro leaned over the bar, the fury inside of him

seething uncontrollably, and shame, conceived of a

great goodness momentarily corrupted by bitterness

and the things he did not understand, deprived him

of the strength to release the turbulence.

“Want to go?”

“No,” he muttered savagely before he could stop

himself.

“Bull didn’t mean it. He might be a brute, but he's

all right.” -

“He meant it. They all mean it. I can see it in their

faces.”

“You see too much.”

‘‘I feel it.”

“Then you feel too much.”

As if hoping to find escape in the whisky, he downed

I05 NO Y NO 2

it quickly and motioned to the bartender to fill it.

When the smiling Chinese behind the bar tipped the

bottle over the glass, he held it down until the liquor

spilled over the lip.

“Leave it, Al,” said Kenji to the Chinese.

Al nodded his head and left the bottle in front of

Ichiro.

They drank in silence, Kenji taking his leisurely

and Ichiro gulping his purposefully.

“Take it slow,” warned Kenji in a voice which

was softer than usual because the whisky made him

that way.

“Doesn’t help,” grumbled Ichiro thickly, “not a

goddamned bit it doesn’t help.” He swung around on

his stool and surveyed the crowd, which had long

since forgotten about him. He noticed hazily that

Taro and his friends were gone. “Sons-of-bitches.

That’s what they are, all of them. Dirty, no-good

sons-of-bitches.”

“I agree,” said Kenji peacefully.

“You too.”

Kenji nodded his head, “Sure, I’m a member too.

World’s full of us.”

“I mean it. Everybody except me. Me, I’m not

even a son of a bitch. I’m nobody, nothing. Just

plain nothing.”

“Let’s get Some air.”

“No, no. After a while. Right now, I’m going to

get stinko.”

“You’re drunk now.”

“Hell, I’m just starting. I want to get so drunk

NO Y NO 2 I06

I’ll feel like a son of a bitch too.” He lifted the glass

to his mouth and emptied it, almost toppling off the

stool.

Kenji grabbed his arm and straightened him out.

“Thanks. Thanks, Ken. You’re okay and you’ve done

plenty for me. Now, it’s my turn. I’m going to do

something for you.”

“What’s that?”

“You go over there and sit with your friend, the

monkey in the blue suit, and I’ll go out the door and

I’ll forget I ever saw you. Fair enough, huh? Best

—thing I can do for you. Forget you, that’s what.”

“That’s no good.”

“It is. It is. You go get fixed up with that blonde.

Take her away from that monkey and I’ll walk out

the door and keep right on going all the way down

Jackson Street and into the drink. I got no right to

let you be my friend. I don’t.##### friend. Please, huh?" T

TºWe’re going for a ride, remember?”

“Nope, you go, with blondie. That’s for you. I

don’t want to go anyplace with you no more.”

They stared at each other, Kenji smiling patiently

at his friend, who spoke with drunken earnestness.

Someone said “Hey” softly and they both turned.

It was Taro.

“Hay is for horses,” he blurted out stiffly at his

brother. “Don’t you even know your own brother's

own name? I’m I-chi-ro, remember?”

“I wanta talk to you.”

“Talk then.”

I07 No 3 NO 2

“C’mon outside.”

“I like it here.”

Taro fidgeted uncertainly and looked hostilely at

Kenji.

“I have to hit the John anyway,” said Kenji

obligingly.

“No, stay. Piss on the floor. This ought to be good.

He’s finally got something to say to me and I want

you to hear it. Well? What is it?” he demanded im

patiently.

“If you’ll come outside, I’ll tell you.”

Ichiro threw up his arms in disgust, “Come back

when you feel like talking in here.” He turned around

to get his drink and did not see the two young Japa

nese step inside the doorway and look questioningly

at Taro. Taro waved them away with a furtive motion

of his hand, which Kenji noticed. The two youths

hurried back out.

“You gonna come out?” asked Taro.

“Your brother is busy. Come back later,” said

Kenji.

“For crissake. Okay, okay, so I’ll go.” Ichiro tumbled

off the stool.

“I’m coming too.” Kenji reached for his cane.

Ichiro held back his friend’s arm. “Nope. This is

a family powwow. You keep my glass warm and I’ll

be right back. Right back.”

“Watch yourself,” cautioned Kenji.

“I’m not that drunk,” laughed Ichiro. He lumbered

after Taro, the weight of his body urging his legs

unsteadily forward in quick, clumsy spurts.

NO & NO & I08

Taro walked rapidly, turning down the alley away

from King Street. Some thirty yards from the club

entrance he angled off through a vacant lot which

was gloomily illuminated by a distant street light.

Resolutely, Ichiro followed, his breath coming hard

and the hot smell of the whisky swirling through his

nostrils nauseatingly. He started across the lot and

spied Taro far ahead. “Where in the hell you going?

I’m tired.” He stopped and fought for breath.

His brother had stopped too and faced him silently

from the shadow of an old garage. Ichiro had to squint

his eyes to barely see him.

There were sounds of feet shuffling in the gravelly

earth. The sounds advanced from all sides. The

darkness of the night and his own drunkenness made

it difficult for him to realize immediately what was

happening. Two youths stepped between him and

Taro.

“That’s a Jap, fellas,” sneered one of them bravely.

A voice concurred from behind: “Yeah, this one's

got a big, fat ass, fatter than its head.”

“It’s got legs,” came a voice from the side, “and

arms too. Just like us.”

“Does it talk?”

“Talks Jap, I bet.”

“Say something,” egged the first youth. “Say no

no in Jap. You oughta be good at that.”

“Yeah, I wanta hear.”

“Me too. Say no-no.”

Ichiro wove unsteadily, the humiliation and anger

intensified by the dulling effect of the liquor into a

I09 NO Y NO &

heavy, brooding madness. He strove to keep his brother

in sight, catching an occasional glimpse of the now

fear-stricken face.

“It doesn’t look very happy,” said a voice, shaky

but inspired by the knowledge of being on the stronger

side.

“That’s ’cause it’s homesick.”

“It’s got a home?”

“Sure, on the other side of the pond.”

“Comes from Japan, doesn’t it?”

“Made in Japan. Says so right here.”

A brutal kick on his behind sent Ichiro stumbling

forward. His anger frothing over, he picked up mo

mentum and lunged at the dim shape that was his

brother. He swung his arms wildly at the two youths

who stood between them. One of them threw himself

athwart his legs and Ichiro sprawled heavily to the

ground. He shook his head wearily and struggled to

his knees.

“Pretty game,” said one of the tormentors calmly.

“Wants to fight,” said another.

“Just like a dog.”

“Dogs don’t wear pants.”

“Right. We can’t let it run around with pants on.”

“No. People will think it's human.”

Before he could struggle to his feet, his arms were

pulled painfully behind him. Furiously, he attempted

to kick himself loose. Immediately arms were clawing

at his trouser legs and it was only a matter of moments

before he was stretched out helplessly.

There was a sharp snap and a slender youth bent

5

No 3 No 2 II()

over him with a wide grin and started to slip the knife

blade under the leather belt.

“That’s enough. Let him go.” Kenji limped across

the lot and advanced upon the group. He poked his

cane at one of the youths who hovered over Ichiro.

Slowly, they backed away from their prey. Only the

youth who held the knife did not move.

“You heard,” said Kenji to him.

“Keep out of this. It’s none of your business.”

“It’s certainly none of yours.” The cane swished

and smacked loudly against the wrist of the knife

wielder.

Dropping the knife with a yelp of pain, the youth

backed off swearing menacingly at Kenji.

“Let’s get out of here,” said one of them urgently.

“Yeah, I heard about this guy. Kill-crazy, that's

what. Even his buddies were afraid of him.”

“Just like a madman. Couldn’t kill enough krauts.”

“I’m gonna beat it.”

“Aw, he’s just another Jap.” The slender youth

stooped over to retrieve his knife, mumbling “Jap

lover.”

Kenji raised his cane and aimed a stiff blow at the

youth’s back.

“Ahh!” The youth fell across Ichiro, then picked

himself up hastily and dashed into the shadows. The

others followed in a mad rush.

“Your brother has nice friends,” said Kenji, helping

Ichiro to get up.

“No-good rotten bastard.” Ichiro brushed himself

with heavy, limp arms.

Ill No: No:

“Want to drink some more?”

Ichiro shook his head from side to side.

They walked silently to the car and, a short while

later, were driving swiftly along the highway leading

southward out of the city. With both windows rolled

down, the dulling effects of the whisky soon wore off.

Ichiro rested his head on the door, exposing his

face to the stream of cold air. Hazily, he thought

disgustedly of the recent happenings, of Bull and of

Taro and his gang of weak hoodlums. He could under

stand Bull’s subjecting him to the indignity in the

Club Oriental. Bull’s mind was about as thick and

unpliable as a brick and the meanness which had

prompted him to make a spectacle of him was less to

blame than the dull, beastly desire to feel the ap

proval of the crowd, which had laughed with him for a

moment instead of at him. The blonde was a compen

sation for his lack of acceptance also. Somehow, he

had managed to date her but, before the night was

done, Bull would be looking stubbornly for her while

someone else took her to bed. He could forgive Bull,

but not Taro, who had baited him into the lot and was

too cowardly to join in the game which he had made

possible and too cowardly to come to his defense when

the horror of what he had done dawned too late.

Taro, my brother who is not my brother, you are

no better than I. You are only more fortunate that

the war years found you too young to carry a gun.

You are fortunate like the thousands of others who,

for various reasons of age and poor health and money

and influence, did not happen to be called to serve

No 2 No 2 II2

in the army, for their answers might have been the

same as mine.*.*.*.*.*.*. weakness which was mine made the same weakness

in you the strength to turn your back on Ma and

Pa and makes it so frighteningly urgent for you to get

into uniform to prove that you are not a part of me.

I was born not soon enough or not late enough and

for that I have been punished. It is not just, but it is

true. I am not one of those who wait for the ship from

Japan with baggage ready, yet the hundreds who

do are freer and happier and fuller than I. I am not

to blame but you blame me and for that I hate you

and I will hate you more when you go into the army

and come out and walk the streets of America as if

you owned them always and forever.

I have made a mistake and I know it with all the

anguish in my soul. I have suffered for it and will

suffer still more. Is it not just then that, for my suffering

and repentance, I be given another chance? One

steals and goes to prison and comes out a free man

with his debt paid. Such a one can start over. He

can tell himself that the mistake which he has made

has been made right with the world. He can, without

much difficulty, even convince himself that his wrong

has been righted and that, with lesson learned, he can

find acceptance among those of his kind. I, too, have

made a mistake and I, too, have served time, two years

all told, and I have been granted a full pardon. Why

is it then that I am unable to convince myself that

I am no different from any other American? Why is

it that, in my freedom, I feel more imprisoned in the

II3 No 3 NO &

wrongness of myself and the thing I did than when

I was in prison? Am I really never to know again

what it is to be American? If there should be an

answer, what is it? What penalty is it that I must pay

to justify my living as I so fervently desire to?

There is, I am afraid, no answer. There is no re

tribution for one who is guilty of treason, and that is

what I am guilty of The fortunate get shot. I must - ~~

live my punishment. - -* *

- Overcome by the sense of futility which came back

to him again and again, he moaned helplessly.

Kenji pointed the Oldsmobile down the broad

stretch of concrete at an unwavering fifty-five. “Head

starting to hurt?”

“Yeah.”

“We can stop for a drink.”

“No. That wouldn’t help.”

They sped past a drive-in movie, catching a glimpse

of the silent drama on the part of the screen which

was unobscured by the fence.

“Speed make you nervous?”

“No.”

The Oldsmobile lunged up to seventy, then struggled

more slowly to seventy-five and, soon, they were

hurtling along at eighty. They rolled up the windows

to stop the wicked rush of air.

“Where we headed?” asked Ichiro.

Kenji drove calmly, not tensing up the way some

fellows do when they drive beyond their usual speeds,

but he kept his eyes on the road. “I want you to

meet a friend,” he answered.

NO 2 NO & II4

“Do we have to? Tonight, I mean.”

“What’s a better time?”

“I’m not exactly sober,” said Ichiro, and he fought

off a shudder. He wished he had a drink.

“She won’t mind.”

“She?”

“She.”

He could have asked who she was, what she did,

why he had to meet her tonight, and so on, but he'd

find out soon enough. He leaned his head back against

the seat and closed his eyes. He was sound asleep by

the time they drove up to the small farmhouse situated

in the middle of forty acres, partly wooded but mostly

cleared.

Letting the motor idle, Kenji turned the car heater

on low and walked the narrow curve of concrete

leading to the front door. He brushed his hand along

side the door and found the button. The faint, muffled

notes of the chime were barely audible. The pale,

brownish glow visible through the window of the

living room flicked twice into a warm brightness and,

immediately after, the porch light snapped on.

Emi was several inches taller than Kenji. She was

slender, with heavy breasts, had rich, black hair which

fell on her shoulders and covered her neck, and her

long legs were strong and shapely like a white

woman's. She smiled and looked beyond him into the

darkness.

“You left the car running.” She questioned him

with her round, dark eyes.

“A friend,” he said, “sleeping it off.”

II5 NO & NO &

“Oh.” Leaving the porch light on, she followed

Kenji into the living room. An old Zenith console,

its round face with the zigzag needle glowing, hummed

monotonously. She turned it off, saying: “Station just

went off.”

Slouching comfortably in an overstuffed chair

beneath the lamp, Kenji grabbed a picture frame

from the end-table and examined the several snap

shots preserved under glass. There was one of a

muscular-looking young Japanese sitting on a tractor.

He looked from it to the fireplace mantel, where a

large color portrait of the same fellow in uniform

stood among an assortment of animals of glass and

china. The other snapshots were of an elderly couple,

pictures taken by a happy daughter on Sunny days,

with the mother and father posing stiffly as they would

in a photographer’s studio.

He set the frame back on the table asking: “Heard

from anyone?”

“Dad wrote,” she said.

“How is he?”

“Sick. Sick of Japan and Japanese and rotten food

and sicker still of having to stay there.”

“What can he do?”

“Nothing.”

“No hope of getting back here?”

“No.” She kicked her shoes off and rested her chin

on her knees, not bothering to pull the skirt down

over her legs.

Kenji stared at the legs and beyond, seeing but

unresponsive. “Nothing from Ralph?”

NO Y NO & II6

Emi glanced briefly at the picture on the mantel.

“No,” she said, “Ralph is not the writing kind.” It

was said bravely, but her lips quivered.

He looked at her with a touch of sadness in his

tired face. She met his gaze with the sadness all in her

eyes, the deep, misty-looking eyes in the finely molded,

lovely face.

“Still love him?”

“What’s that?”

“You know what.”

Dropping her feet to the rug, she squirmed uneasily

for a moment. “Do I?” she said almost shrilly.

“That’s what I’m asking.”

“I think so. No, perhaps I should say I thought

I did. Then again, there are times when I’m quite

sure I do. Does it make sense to you, Ken?”

“Sounds mixed up.”

“Yes.”

From the end-table, Kenji helped himself to a

cigarette. “If I were you and my husband signed up

for another hitch in Germany without even coming

home or asking me to go over and be with him, I’d

stop loving him. I’d divorce him.”

“That makes the twenty-ninth time you’ve said that

and it’s still none of your business.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

She stood up abruptly, snatched the cigarette out

of his hand, and turned her back on him, saying

sharply: “Then stop saying it.”

He reached out and squeezed her elbow tenderly.

II7 NO Y NO &

Slowly, reluctantly she looked at him. “I’m sorry,”

she said.

She smiled, gazing fondly at him for a moment.

“Coffee?” she asked sweetly.

“Sure. Make enough for the friend.”

As soon as Emi had gone to the kitchen, Kenji

decided to awaken Ichiro. Just as he was about to

rise, Ichiro came into the house.

“Snap the light off,” shouted Kenji.

Ichiro looked stupidly at him.

“The porch light. Switch is on the wall.”

Looking around uncertainly, Ichiro located the

switch and did as he was told. He examined the house,

the pictures, the radio, the books, the lamps, the

curtains, and the old upright near the fireplace but

not flat against the wall. It was, rather, almost per

pendicular to the wall so that the heavy, unpainted

casing was in plain view. He caught Kenji’s eye and

tossed the car keys to him. Touching the piano keys

hesitantly, he punched out several notes, then tried

a series of chords with both hands.

“Sounds good. Play something,” said Kenji.

Sliding onto the bench, Ichiro executed several runs

before starting into a simple but smooth rendition of

“Sentimental Journey.” It sounded good, almost pro

fessional in spite of the monotony of the chording,

and Kenji listened appreciatively.

Hearing the playing, Emi came out of the kitchen.

As she turned toward the piano, the look of inquiry

on her face suddenly changed to wide-eyed surprise.

No 2 No 2 II8

It wasn’t horror exactly, but there might have been

a trace of it. She let out a sharp utterance.

Ichiro stopped and twisted about until he was facing

her.

“Forgive me. You looked—you reminded me of

someone, sitting there like that.” She turned toward

Kenji.

“Hadn’t thought about it,” he said, “but, I guess

you’re right. Ichiro is big and husky like Ralph. Emi,

that’s Ichiro. Ichiro, Emi.”

Getting up from the bench self-consciously, Ichiro

nodded to her.

“How are you at “Chopsticks'?” she asked, recovered

from her initial shock.

“So-so,” he replied.

Emi pulled him back onto the bench and sat beside

him. They fumbled the beginning several times, laugh

ing at their own ineptitude and quickly losing the

sense of strangeness in their mutual endeavor. Finally,

getting off to an even start, they played loudly and not

always together to the finish.

“You play much better than I do,” she commented

gaily.

“I try,” he said modestly.

They walked together to the sofa and sat down

facing Kenji.

“Never knew you could play at all,” said Kenji.

“I learned from an old German named Burk,” re

plied Ichiro. “He was a good guy, a real musician.

Played one time with some symphony outfit—San

Francisco, I think it was. He was fifty years old and

Il!) Not No:

looked sixty-five with flabby creases on his face and his

shoulders stooped over. His hands were big, with

thick, stubby fingers more like a bricklayer’s than a

pianist’s. He made music with those ugly hands and

he also used them to choke his wife to death. He

taught me while I was in prison.”

“Prison,” echoed Emi. “You were in prison?”

“Yeah, I guess Ken doesn’t talk enough. I was in

for not wanting to go in the army.”

“I’m sorry, frightfully sorry,” she said sincerely.

“So am I.’”

She studied him quizzically, then rose to get the

coffee.

“Where are we?” he asked Kenji.

“You’ve sobered up,” he replied.

“Thanks for keeping me warm.”

“Didn’t want you to catch cold.”

“Drunks don’t catch cold.”

“You’re out of practice. You weren’t really drunk.”

“I was.”

“Okay. You were.”

“Where are we?” he repeated.

“Out in the country. Away from it all. You’ll see

what it’s like in the morning.”

Ichiro jerked his head up and waited for an ex

planation.

“We can sleep here. Emi doesn’t mind.” Kenji

reached out and pulled the coffee table in front of

them as Emi returned from the kitchen.

The coffee was black and hot. Emi sat beside Ichiro,

looking at him with wondering eyes. It was as if she

NO Y NO 2 I20

yearned to reach out and touch him. Ichiro felt un

comfortable, yet drawn to her, for she was young

and lovely and attractive.

Kenji sat smiling, so much so that Ichiro commented

upon it.

“Just feeling good and satisfied,” said Kenji, leaning

back and lifting the stiff limb with both hands onto

the coffee table.

They sipped their coffee, saying little and occasional

ly looking at one another. Kenji kept grinning, ap

parently with meaning to Emi, for she began to fidget

nervously. Suddenly, she stood up and said not un

pleasantly that she was going to bed.

“I’ll sack down on the sofa out here,’

watching Emi intently.

Her face flushed. She started to say something,

then merely nodded her head and, without looking

at Ichiro, left them.

“What goes on?” inquired Ichiro.

“I didn’t notice anything. Why do you ask?”

“I must be getting sleepy. Forget it.” He stood up

and studied the sofa. “We might as well fix up the bed.

How does this thing work?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Aren’t we sleeping here?”

“I am.”

“And me?”

“In the bedroom, of course.”

“Which One?”

Kenji said steadily, “There’s only one—that is,

only one with a bed in it.”

>

said Kenji,

I2I NO Y NO 2

Appalled by the realization of the fantastic situation,

Ichiro sank down upon the sofa. “Where,” he said

pointedly, “does she sleep?”

“In the bedroom.”

“What the hell is this?” he boomed out indignantly.

“She likes you.”

“Sure, that’s great. I like her too, but this is crazy.

I hardly know her.”

“Does it make a difference?”

“Yes, it does.”

“She needs you,” said Kenji. “No, I should say she

needs someone. Just like you need someone. Just like

I need someone sometimes. I won’t apologize for her

Tbecause then I’d have to apologize for myself. She

Twaited four years for Ralph to come back. We were

in the same outfit. Ralph signed up for another hitch.

Don’t ask me why. He did. He asked me to look her

up and tell her he wasn’t coming back for a while.

No explanations. Just tell her he wasn’t coming back

just yet. Would you wait?”

“No.”

“I’m only half a man, Ichiro, and when my leg

starts aching, even that half is no good.”

The hot color rose to his face as he lashed out at

Kenji angrily: “So you’re sending in a substitute, is

that it?”

Kenji sighed. “The conversation is getting vulgar,

but the facts aren’t vulgar because I don’t feel that

they are wrong or loose or dirty or vulgar. You can

sleep on the floor or take the car and go back to

town.” He threw the keys on the sofa beside Ichiro.

No! No: 122

Ichiro sat and fumed, struggling to do the right

thing and not knowing what it was. If Kenji had said

another word or allowed even a tiny smile to rise to

his lips, he would have snatched the keys and rushed

Out.

His face an unchanging mask of serious patience,

Kenji sat quietly.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” said Ichiro placidly.

Kenji grasped the leg and lowered it from the table,

wincing as he did so. With his cane, he pointed beyond

the kitchen.

Walking up to the partly open door, Ichiro paused

and glanced back at Kenji. Slowly, he pushed it open

and shut it silently behind him. There were two

windows in the back, shining dimly against the darkness

of the unlighted room. As his eyes became accustomed

to the dark, he was able to make out the shape of the

bed and the slender hump that was Emi. Moving

cautiously forward, he glimpsed the fine trail of chain

hanging from the ceiling. He raised his arm toward

it gropingly.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

He untied his shoes by kneeling down and then let

his shirt and trousers drop to the floor. Debating

whether or not to strip all the way down, he pondered

the matter for a long while. Then, like a swimmer

plunging decisively into the cold water, he removed

his underclothes and crawled into the bed.

His body taut and, uncomfortable, he lay stiffly and

stared at the ceiling. He fought for something to say,

some remark to start bridging the gap of starched

5

I23 NO & NO Y

sheet that stretched between them. He listened to her

soft, even breathing and tried to control the heaving

of his own breast. At length, she stirred and her hand

found his under the covers. It was warm and friendly

and relaxing.

“This house,” he said.

“Yes?”

“You live here all alone?”

“Very much so.”

“No brothers or sisters?”

“No. No brothers or sisters.”

“Folks. How about them?”

“Mother died in thirty-nine.”

“That’s tough.”

“It was just as well,” she said. “The war would

have made her suffer and she didn’t have that. She

had a wonderful funeral. It seemed as if everyone in

the valley came with little white envelopes bearing

quarters and dollars and some with even five and ten

dollars and a few with much, much more. Paid for

the funeral, they did. If father were here, he’d still

be talking about it. It made him proud to tell people

how he actually made money on the funeral. He didn’t

really mean it that way, of course. It was just his way

of saying that he had a lot of good friends.”

He lay there thinking about his own mother,

thinking what might have been if she had died merci

fully before Pearl Harbor also.

“Dad is in Japan,” she continued. “He asked to

be repatriated and he’s been there five months.”

“My ma thinks Japan won the war,” he said.

Not No. 124

“So did Dad. But he doesn’t any more. He wants

to come back.”

“What makes them that way?”

“I don’t know. It’s like a sickness.”

He turned to face her, his leg touching hers. “I

want to know,” he said loudly and distinctly. “I’ve

ruined my life and I want to know what it is that made

me do it. I’m not sick like them. I’m not crazy like

Ma is or your father was. But I must have been.”

“It’s because we’re American and because we’re

Japanese and sometimes the two don’t mix. It’s all

right to be German and American or Italian and

American or Russian and American but, as things

turned out, it wasn’t all right to be Japanese and

American. You had to be one or the other.”

“So?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, “I don’t know.”

“I’ve got to know,” he sobbed out, holding des

perately to her hand with both of his.

Emi reached out her free hand and drew his face

against her naked breast. Lost and bewildered like a

child frightened, he sobbed quietly.

It was hardly seven o’clock when Ichiro stirred

wearily and dug his chin deeper into the covers to

ward off the sharp coolness of the morning country

air. He rolled half a turn, expecting to encounter the

soft warmth of the girl who was a woman and could

not wait for her husband but waited, and she was

not there. He lay there for a moment, wanting to sleep

some more and finding it difficult because Emi was

I25 NO & NO &

gone. Slowly, he eased out from under the covers

and sat shivering on the edge of the bed.

On a chair near the bed were neatly laid out a fresh

shirt, a clean pair of slacks, even underwear and socks.

His own clothes were not in sight. He dressed hurriedly,

his body tingling from the brisk, unheated air and his

head heavy and dull.

In the kitchen he let the cold water run over his

head and neck, shocking himself into a wide-eyed

yet somewhat drowsy state of wakefulness. The table

bore signs of someone’s having breakfasted. There was

a cup with a film of coffee in the bottom and a small

plate with toast crumbs and a butter-stained knife.

When he put his hand to the coffeepot, it was still

warm. He poured a cupful and drank it down.

Kenji was still sleeping soundly and, while he stood

over his friend, wondering whether or not to awaken

him, he heard the water spraying in the yard. He

walked softly to the door and stepped outside.

It was a glorious morning. The sun, barely starting

to peek over the eastern rim, was forcing its crown

of vivid yellows and oranges and reds against the great

expanse of hazy blue. The utter stillness of the country

side seemed even more still against the occasional

distant crowing of a rooster and the chirping of the

birds.

Through the misty, swirling pattern from the re

volving sprinkler on the neat, green lawn he saw

Emi kneeling over the flower bed.

“Morning,” he said and, when she didn’t respond,

he said more loudly: “Hey.”

No 2 NO 2 I26

She turned and, smiling, waved. Taking time to

pull a few more weeds, she rose finally and made

her way around the flying water. She wore a pair of

man's overall pants, encircled with dampness at the

knees, and a heavy athletic sweater with two gold

stripes on the arm and an over-sized F on the front.

It hung on her like an old potato sack, limp and

faded from repeated use. She paused a short distance

in front of him and examined him skeptically.

“Pants are a little snug around the waist, but they

fit good,” he said.

“I thought they would. You’re about the same size

as him.”

Watching her standing there, he felt the need to

say something about the previous night. “I want you

to know—” he started hesitantly.

The color rose faintly to her cheeks. “You mustn't,”

she said quickly. “Talking will make it sound bad and

unclean and it was not so.”

He fidgeted uneasily, then saw the truth in her

words. “No, it wasn't.”

“There’s a jacket in the hall closet,” she said as

she bent down to grab the hose and pull the sprinkler

closer to the concrete walk.

It wasn’t any longer than a minute or so before he

had come back out with the snug-fitting leather jacket.

Emi was sitting on the bottom step and he dropped

down beside her. She sat with her wrists on her knees,

her soiled hands carefully arched away from the soiled

overalls as if she were wearing a clean skirt.

“There’s someone out there,” he said, peering into

I27 No 2 No 2

the distance across the level field and catching the

movement of a tiny, dark shape stooped over in earnest

industry.

“That's Mr. Maeno,” she replied. “He leases my

land.”

“Looks like he’s all alone.”

“Oh, no. There’s Mrs. Maeno, of course, and they

have two young daughters who help after school and

they hire help when necessary.”

“And work from daylight till sundown, seven days

a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. I

can tell he’s that kind of a man without ever having

met him but by just watching him from here.”

“Is that bad?”

“Bad?” He thought about it for a while before

answering. “It’s good. I used to think farmers were

crazy working the way they do. I don’t any more. I

envy him.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s got a purpose in life. He’s got some

thing to do. He’s got a goal of some kind and it gives

meaning to his life and he's probably pretty satisfied.”

“And me?”

He turned and looked at her. She was smiling, half

seriously, half teasingly.

“I envy you too,” he said without hesitation.

“And Ken? Poor Ken.”

“Him also.”

“You’re bitter and you’ve no right to be.” She

brushed her palm against her eye irritatedly.

He stood up, digging his fists angrily into his pockets

NO & NO & I28

9 because she was nice and he had no right to make her

sº rtner to his gloom. “What kind of flowers did you plaſt?” he said cheerfully.

Sº “Sit down, Ichiro.”

º Obeying her, he said: “I want to talk about some

thing else.”

“I don’t. I want to talk about you, about how you

feel and why you feel as you do.”

“It’s a lousy way to spend a fine morning,” he pro

tested.

She put a hand on his arm until he turned and

looked at her. “I think I know how you feel.”

He shook his head. “You can’t. No one can.”

“I thought about it while you were sleeping. I

put myself in your place and I know how you feel.

It’s a very hopeless sort of feeling.”

There was nothing he could say to that and he

didn’t.

“A hopeless feeling, however, doesn’t mean that

there is no hope.”

“Are you saying there is?”

“There must be.” She rubbed her hands together,

flaking the dry dirt onto the walk.

“Thanks for trying,” he said, “thanks for trying to

help.”

Emi faced him with a look of surprise and hurt anger:

“Do you really think it’s so hopeless? What do you

propose to do during the rest of your life? Drown your

self in your selfish bitterness?”

Ichiro opened his mouth to mollify her.

“Are you blind?” she continued without waiting

I29 No 2 No 2

for an answer. “Deaf2 Dumb? Helpless? You're young,

healthy, and supposedly intelligent. Then be intelli

gent. Admit your mistake and do something about it.”

“What?” -

“Anything. It doesn’t matter what you do. This

is a big country with a big heart. There’s room here

for all kinds of people. Maybe what you’ve done

doesn’t make you one of the better ones but you're

not among the worst either.”

“If I were Ralph, if Ralph had done what I did,

would you still feel the same way?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Ralph's a lucky guy,” he said.

“And you are too. In any other country they would

have shot you for what you did. But this country is

different. They made a mistake when they doubted

you. They made a mistake when they made you do

what you did and they admit it by letting you run

around loose. Try, if you can, to be equally big and

forgive them and be grateful to them and prove to

them that you can be an American worthy of the

frailties of the country as well as its strengths.”

“The way you say that, it seems to make sense, but

I don’t know.”

“You do know,” she said quickly, for she was spurred

by the effect her words were having on him. “It’s

hard to talk like this without sounding pompous and

empty, but I can remember how full I used to get with

pride and patriotism when we sang “The Star-Spangled

Banner' and pledged allegiance to the flag at school

assemblies, and that’s the feeling you’ve got to have.”

No 2 NO 2 I30

“It was different then.”

“Only because you think so. Next time you’re alone,

pretend you’re back in school. Make believe you’re

singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” and see the color

guard march out on the stage and say the pledge of

allegiance with all the other boys and girls. You’ll

get that feeling flooding into your chest and making

you want to shout with glory. It might even make

you feel like crying. That's how you’ve got to feel,

so big that the bigness seems to want to bust out, and

then you’ll understand why it is that your mistake

was no bigger than the mistake your country made.”

Ichiro pushed himself off the step and walked slow

ly to the end of the yard. Turning, he looked at Emi,

who stared back at him with an intentness which made

him uncomfortable. Keeping his eyes on her, he made

his way back until he was looking down upon her.

“It’s nice out here,” he said, “nice house, nice yard,

nice you. No cars whizzing by, no people making noise.

It’s quiet and peaceful and clean and fresh and nice.

It feels good just being here and even what you’ve just

been saying sounds all right. But I don’t live here.

I don’t belong here. It’s not the same out there.” He

motioned toward the highway and beyond, where the

city lay.

For a moment she looked as if she might scream to

relieve herself of the agony in her soul for him.

Fighting to regain her composure, she beckoned him

to sit down.

He did so wearily, not wanting to pursue the subject

but sensing that she was not yet ready to abandon it.

I31 NO & NO &

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Twenty-five,” he answered, skeptical.

“I’m twenty-seven. So is Ralph, and Mike is fifty.”

“Mike?”

“Yes, Mike, a good American name for a good

American—at least, he was. Mike is Ralph's brother.”

“I See.”

“No, you don’t. Not yet, anyway. I want to tell you

about him.”

“Sure.”

“Do you want to go to Japan and live there?”

He furrowed his brow, not understanding. “You

were going to tell me about Mike.”

“I am,” she said impatiently. “Do you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Mike did.”

“He did?”

“Yes, not because he wanted to, but because he had

“I still don’t get it.”

“You will. I’ll start from the beginning.”

“Fine.”

As if preparing the story in her mind, she gazed

silently over the fields before she began. “Mike was

born in California and went to college there. He

knocked around for a while and was doing graduate

work in Louisiana when the war, the first world war,

started. He’d left California because he didn’t like

the way the white people treated the Japanese and he

was happy in Louisiana because they treated him like

a white man there. So, when the war came, he wanted

to

NO Y NO 2 I32

to get into it and did. He spent a year in France, came

back, joined the VFW, returned to California, and

got into the produce business. He did well, got married,

and has two children. Then the second war started.

When talk about the evacuation started, he wouldn’t

believe it. He was an American and a veteran of the

first war. He thought there might be justification in

interning some of the outspokenly pro-Japanese aliens,

but he scoffed at the idea of the government doing

such a thing to him. When it became apparent that

the government proposed to do just that, he burst

into a fury of anger and bitterness and swore that if

they treated him like a Japanese, he would act like one.

Well, you know what happened and he stuck to his

words. Along with the other rabidly pro-Japanese, he

ended up at the Tule Lake Center, and became a

leader in the troublemaking, the strikes and the riots.

His wife and children remained in this country, but he

elected to go to Japan, a country he didn’t know or

love, and I’m sure he’s extremely unhappy.”

“I can’t say I blame him.”

“I’m sure he wishes he were back here.”

“He’s got more right than I have.”

She swung around to face him, her eyes wide with

anger. “You don’t understand. Mike doesn’t have

any more right than you have to be here. He has no

right at all any more. It was as if he joined the enemy

by antagonizing the people against the government,

and you certainly never did that. All you did was

to refuse to go in the army and you did so for a reason

I33 NO Y NO &

no worse than that held by a conscientious objector

who wasn’t a conscientious objector.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“No?” She looked at him pleadingly, her mouth

quivering uncontrollably. “I want so much to help,”

she cried softly, “but nothing seems to make any

sense.”

He patted her back awkwardly, trying to think of

what to say to soothe her.

“Ralph won’t come back because of Mike. He's

ashamed,” she whimpered. “How am I to tell him

that it makes no difference what Mike has done? Why

is it that Ralph feels he must punish himself for Mike's

mistake? Why?”

“He’ll come back. Takes time to work these things

out.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes on the sleeve

of the sweater.

“So am I. Hungry too.”

They rose together and entered the house.

Inside, they found Kenji getting breakfast ready.

He looked up from the frying eggs and bacon and

grinned sheepishly. His face was drawn and pale.

The cane was hooked to his belt, for he held the

spatula in one hand and a water glass half full of

whisky in the other.

“We were talking outside,” said Ichiro.

“Yeah, nice morning. You should have stayed out

a while longer. Breakfast isn’t quite ready.”

Emi washed off her hands and took over at the

No 2 No 2 I34

stove. Sadly, she watched as Kenji limped carefully

to the table. “How did you sleep?”

“Not very well.” He sipped the whisky apprecia

tively.

“It-it-” She bit her lips for control and managed

to utter: “Did it—does it . . . .”

“It does, Emi.”

“Oh.” She flipped the eggs over unthinkingly. “I–

I hope you weren’t expecting sunny side up.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Ichiro said assuringly:

“Makes no difference to me.”

Moving about quietly as if fearing to jar the floor,

Emi fixed the plates and set them on the table. Ichiro

poured the coffee and loaded the toaster.

Kenji leaned back in his chair and gazed through

the window above the sink. “Swell day for a picnic,”

he said. “How about it, Emi? Pack a lunch.”

Ichiro retrieved the toast, saying: “Sounds good to

me.”

“Go home and see your father and your brothers

and sisters,” she answered. “They’ll want to see you

before you go. We can have our picnic after you come

back. Please.”

“I suppose you’re right. You always are.” He

turned to Ichiro: “Feel like going to Portland to

morrow?”

“What’s there?”

Emi's fork clattered against the plate. “The VA

hospital,” she said curtly.

“Sure,” he said, looking at Emi, who was avoiding

his eyes, “I’d be happy to.”

I35 No 2 No 2

While Ichiro ate and Kenji drank, Emi got up and

left them. She returned a few minutes later, shed of

the baggy work clothes and wearing a trim, blue

Shantung dress and high heels. He eyed her ap

provingly, but Kenji seemed to take no notice until

it was time for them to leave.

At the door Kenji said fondly to her: “Thanks for

not choosing black. You look wonderful.”

“I’ll wait for you,” she said softly, fighting to hold

back the tears. She slipped out of her shoes and, when

Kenji kissed her lightly on the cheek, grasped him

about the neck and put her lips to his.

As he backed the car down the driveway to the road,

Ichiro saw her standing very still on the porch, neither

waving nor shouting. He had a feeling that she was

crying.

No 2 No 2 No 2 No 1 5 No 2 No 2 No 2 No 1

AN HOUR LATER Ichiro was at home with

a promise from Kenji to pick him up early the next

morning. As he walked into the store, his motherlooked

up from a sheaf of bills and receipts. If there was any

indication of relief, he didn’t notice it.

“Where have you been?” she said accusingly.

“Out.” On the way home he had felt a twinge of

guilt for having spent the night away without telling

his folks, but whatever regrets he might have had

were quickly dispelled by the tone of her voice.

“Where have you been?” she repeated harshly.

“With Kenji, Kanno-san's boy.” He approached

the counter and faced her. “You know him.”

“Ahh,” she said shrilly and distastefully, “that one

who lost a leg. How can you be friends with such a

one? He is no good.”

He gripped the counter for fear of having his hands

free. “Why?” he rasped.

His discomfort seemed strangely to please her. She

raised her chin perceptibly and answered: “He is not

Japanese. He fought against us. He brought shame to

I37 No 2 No 2

his father and grief to himself. It is unfortunate he

was not killed.”

“What's so good about being Japanese?” He felt

the pressure of the wood against his nails.

She seemed not to hear him. Quite calmly, she con

tinued, talking in the tone of mother to son: “You

can be a good boy, a fine son. For my sake and yours

do not see him again. It is just as well.”

Pushing himself away from the counter, he let his

arms drop to his sides. “I’m going to Portland with

him tomorrow.”

Her face, which had dropped to regard a column

of figures on an invoice from the wholesale grocer,

jerked up. For a moment, it glared at him, the twisted

mouth contorting the slender, austere face into a

hard mass of dark hatred. “Do as you will,” she cried

out. Then the tension drained just as quickly from

her face and she was putting her mind to the figures

OnCe InCre. -

Through his anger crept up a sudden feeling of

remorse and pity. It was an uneasy, guilty sort of

sensation which made himI want almost to take her

into his arms and comfort her, for he saw that the

sicknes Ull tha Japanese once and forever

was beginning to y her mind. Right or wrong,

she, in her way, had tried harder than most mothers

to be a good mother to him. Did it matter so much

that events had ruined the plans which she cherished

and turned the once very possible dreams into a

madness which was madness only in view of the

No 2 NO & I38

changed status of the Japanese in America? Was it

she who was wrong and crazy not to have found in

herself the capacity to accept a country which re

peatedly refused to accept her or her sons unquestion

ingly, or was it the others who were being deluded,

the ones, like Kenji, who believed and fought and

even gave their lives to protect this country where they

could still not rate as first-class citizens because of the

unseen walls?

How is one to talk to a woman, a mother who is

also a stranger because the son does not know who

or what she is? ..º.º.º.º.

is it to be a Japanese? There must have been a time

when you were a little girl. You never told me about

those things. Tell me now so that I can begin to

understand. Tell me about the house in which you

lived and of your father and mother, who were my

º grandparents,º: or known Q º because I do n member your ever speaking of them

N º except to say that they died a long time ago. Tell me

( * * * everything and just a little bit and a little bit more

º until their lives and yours and mine are fitted together,

) for they surely must be. There is time now while there

- are no customers and you and I are all alone. Begin

from the beginning when your hair was straight and

black and everyone was Japanese because that was

where you were born and America was not yet a

country beyond the ocean where fortunes were to be

made or an enemy to hate. Quick, now, quick, Mother,

what was the name of your favorite school teacher?

While he wrestled with the words which cried to

I39 NO & NO &

be spoken, the mother glanced up and looked surprised

as if to say: Oh, I thought you had gone. She riffled

through the papers and dug out an envelope arrayed

with an assortment of expensive-looking stamps. It

was similar to the other ones from Japan which he

had seen in his father's hands two nights previously.

“For Papa,” she sneered, flipping it across the

counter at him.

He snatched it as it was about to slide over the

edge. If he had been about to say something, the

moment was gone. Wretchedly, he turned and

stumbled into the kitchen.

The father turned from the cutting board, where

he was chopping up a head of cabbage for pickling.

Around his waist was a bright plastic apron and his

wide, stubby, stockinged feet were crammed into a

pair of shapeless reed slippers.

“Ichiro, my son,” he chuckled, “you are home.”

He gazed fondly at him and added: “Had a nice time,

yes?”

He looked up at his father, not immediately under

standing what the old man meant. “Sure,” he said,

interpreting the sly, friendly smile, “not enough to

make up for two years, but I had a big time.”

“Ya,” the father said gleefully and brought his

hands together as might a child in a brief moment of

ecstasy, “I was young once too. I know. I know.”

He picked up the broad, steel blade and sank it

energetically into the cabbage.

Whatever the old man thought he knew was proba

bly wilder and lewder and more reckless than the

No 3 NO & I40

comparatively gentle night that he had spent with

Emi. It bothered him to have his father thinking

that he had spent the night carousing when such was

not the case. He could imagine what it must have

been like for the young Japanese new to America

and slaving at a killing job on the railroad in Montana

under the scorching sun and in the choking dust.

Once a month, or even less, the gang of immigrants

would manage to make it to town for a weekend.

There would be gambling and brawling and hard

drinking and sleeping with bought women, and

then the money would be gone. Monday would find

them swinging their sledge hammers and straining

mercilessly against the bars to straighten the hot,

gleaming strips of railing while the foul smell of cheap

liquor oozed out of their listless bodies. Occasionally,

one of them would groan aloud with guilty resolve

that he would henceforth stay in camp and save his

money and hoard and cherish it into a respectable

sum, for was that not what he had come to America

for? And there would be murmurs of approbation

from those who harbored the same thoughts and were

thinking what foolishness it is to work like an animal

and have nothing but a sick faintness in the head

to show for it. If it is not to work and save and go

back to Japan a rich man, which is why one comes

to America, it is better never to have left Japan. The

will is there and, in this moment when the shame

and futility is greatest, the vow is renewed once and

for always. No more gambling. No more drinking.

No more whoring. And the ones who had long since

I4] NO Y NO &

stopped repeating the vow snickered and guffawed

and rested their bodies by only seeming to heave

when the gang boss commanded but by not really

heaving at all so that the younger ones had to exert

themselves just that much more and thereby became

more fervent in their resolution to walk a straight

path.

“I got pretty drunk,” he said vaguely.

“Ya, I drink pretty good too.” He bent over the

cabbage, mumbling: “Pretty good—pretty good.”

Ichiro laid the letter on the table and pressed it

flat with his hands. “Another letter, Pa. Just came.”

Laying down the knife and wiping his hands on

a dish towel, the old man sat at the table and took

the letter. Holding it at arm’s length, he examined

the envelope curiously. “So much money to send

such a tiny piece of paper. Still, they write. For Mama,

this one. From her sister. They would die with happi

ness if they saw our little store so full of cans and

bottles and boxes of things to eat.”

He inserted a pudgy finger under the flap and ran

it through from end to end. The thin sheets of rice

paper crackled softly as he removed them. He read

the letter slowly and deliberately, his eyes barely

moving and his mouth silently forming words. After

he had finished, he sat staring at the last page for a

long time without moving, looking extremely thought

ful. Slowly, he shook his head several times.

“Mama!” he shouted suddenly in a loud voice.

The mother stuck her head through the curtain,

looking unhappy about being disturbed.

No: No: 142

“Sit down, Mama.”

“Who will watch the store?”

“Please. I say sit down.”

She did so but not without making it obvious that

she disapproved. “What is it?”

The old man shoved the letter before her. “It is

from your sister for you. Read.”

“I do not have to read it,” she said flippantly. “Is

this why you ask me to leave the store unattended and

sit in the kitchen?” She started to rise.

“No,” he said and pushed her roughly back into

the chair. “Then I will read.”

She glared stubbornly at him, but was momentarily

too surprised to defy him.

Ichiro was watching his father, who continued to

speak: “It is from your sister who calls you Kin-chan.

She has not written before.”

“Kin-chan?” voiced the mother stupidly, hardly

believing the sound of her own diminutive, which

she had almost forgotten.

“Many, many pardons, dear Kin-chan,” the father

read, “for not having written to you long before this,

but I have found it difficult to write of unpleasant

things and all has been unpleasant since the dis

astrous outcome of the war which proved too vast an

undertaking even for Japan. You were always such

a proud one that I am sure you have suffered more

than we who still live at home. I, too, have tried to

be proud but it is not an easy thing to do when one’s

children are always cold and hungry. Perhaps it is

punishment for the war. How much better things

I43 No 2 No. 2

might have been had there been no war. For myself,

I ask nothing, but for the children, if it is possible,

a little sugar, perhaps, or the meat which you have

in cans or the white powder which can be made into

milk with water. And, while I know that I am already

asking too much, it would be such a comfort to me

and a joy to the children if you could somehow manage

to include a few pieces of candy. It has been so long

since they have had any. I am begging and feel no

shame, for that is the way things are. And I am writing

after many long years and immediately asking you

to give assistance, which is something that one

should not do in a letter until all the niceties have

been covered, but, again, that is the way things are.

Forgive me, Kin-chan, but the suffering of my children

is the reason I must write in this shameless manner.

Please, if you can, and I know not that you can, for

there have been no answers to the many letters which

brother and uncle and cousin have written, but, if

you can, just a little will be of such great comfort to

us—”

“Not true. I won’t listen.” She did not, however,

move. Nervously, she rubbed her palms against her

lap.

“One more place I will read,” said the father and,

casting aside the first sheet, searched along the second

until he found the place he wanted. “Here she writes:

“Remember the river and the secret it holds? You

almost drowned that day for the water was deeper

and swifter than it looked because of the heavy rains.

We were frightened, weren’t we? Still, they were

No 3 NO & I44

wonderful, happy times and, children that we were,

we vowed never to tell anyone how close to dying

you came. Had it not been for the log on the bank,

I could only have watched you being swallowed up

by the river. It is still your secret and mine for I have

never told anyone about it. It no longer seems im

portant, but I do think about such things if only to

tell myself that there were other and better times.’”

He laid the sheets on the table and looked firmly

at his wife as he had not done for a long, long time.

Then, as if sensing the enormity of the thing he had

been trying to prove, his mouth trembled weakly and

he retreated timidly to the cabbage, which he began

industriously to stuff into a stone tub partly filled

with salt water. On the cabbage he placed a board,

and on the board, a large, heavy stone weight. Not

until then did he fearfully cock his head and look

askance at the woman who was his wife and the

mother of his sons.

She sat stonily with hands in lap, her mouth slightly

ajar in the dumb confusion that raged through her

mind fighting off the truth which threatened no longer

to be untrue. Taking the letter in her hands finally,

she perused it with sad eyes which still occasionally

sparked with suspicious contempt.

Ichiro watched wordlessly, having understood

enough of the letter to realize what was taking place.

The passive reaction of his mother surprised him,

even caused him to worry uncomfortably.

“Oh, they are so clever,” she suddenly said very

clearly in a voice slightly nasal, “even to the secret

I45 No 2 No 2

which I had long forgotten. How they must have

tortured her to make her reveal it. Poor, poor sister.”

With letter in hand, she rose and disappeared into

the bedroom.

The father glanced nervously at Ichiro and shoved

the cabbage-filled stone tub under the sink. “It is

happening, ya? She is beginning to see how things

are?”

“I don’t know, Pa.. I think so.”

“What is it you think?”

“She didn’t look too happy. Maybe it means she's

not so sure any more about Japan winning the war.”

Muttering under his breath, the father hastened to

get the bottle from the cupboard and tilted it hungrily

to his mouth. Taking more than he had intended, he

gagged noisily and stamped his foot on the floor until

the agony passed. Tears streaming down his beet

red face, he stumbled to the table and flopped down

hard on the chair. “Aagh,” he grunted hoarsely,

“good stuff, good stuff.”

Ichiro fetched a glass of water, which the old man

downed promptly. He nodded gratefully to his son.

When his discomfort had passed, he uttered with

obvious embarrassment: “I do not mean to hurt her,

Ichiro. I do not mean to do any wrong. It is not right

for her to go on hugging like a crazy woman to her

dreams of madness when they are not so, is it? Is it,

Ichiro?”

“No, it’s not right.”

“I am not wrong, no?”

“No, you’re not wrong. She should know.”

NO Y NO & I46

“Ya,” he said, greatly relieved, “I do only what is

right. A woman does not have the strength of a man,

so it is I who must make her see the truth. She will

be all right.”

When Ichiro did not answer, the old man, looking

concerned again, repeated: “She will be all right,

ya, Ichiro?”

“Sure, Pa, sure. Give her time.”

“Ya, time. We have plenty time. She will be all

right, but look anyway.”

“What?”

“Look. Look in the bedroom. See that she is all

right now.”

His disgust mounting rapidly, Ichiro peeked into

the bedroom doorway. In the semi-darkness of the

room, the mother sat on the edge of the bed, staring

blankly at the sheets of paper in her hand. Her ex

pression was neither that of sadness nor anger. It was

a look which meant nothing, for the meaning was

gone.

“How is it?” asked the father anxiously. “What is

she doing, Ichiro?”

“Sitting,” he replied.

“Only sitting?”

“Maybe thinking too. How should I know?”

“I make lunch. After she eat, she be fine. You watch

the store, ya?”

“Sure.” Ichiro settled himself on a stool behind the

cash register and lighted a cigarette. He thought of

the trip to Portland the following day and wished that

he were already on his way. Then it occurred to him

I47 NO Y NO &

>{

that he might look for work down there without

returning home.

I haven’t got a home, he said to himself, smiling

ironically. Why should I come back? Too many people

know me here. Best I can do around Seattle is knock

my head against the wall. The sensible thing to do

would be to find work in Portland, mind my own

business, keep away from the Japs, and there’s no

reason why things couldn’t work out. It’s the only

chance I’ve got. I’ve got to start clean. I’ve got to ge

-away from Pa and Ma-and forget the past. To forget- | | completely—would-be-impossible, but I don't have XO to stay here where I’ll be remin e

of the day. I don’t owe them a thing. They loused up

my life for me and loused up their own in the process.

Why can’t they be like other people, other Japs, and

take things as they are? . . . They? Ma’s the one.

Pa, he’s just around. Still, his weakness is just as bad

as Ma's strength. He might have prevented all this.

He saw what was going on. He could have taken her

in hand and straightened her out long ago. Or could

he? No, I guess not. Pa's okay, what there is of him,

but he missed out someplace. He should have been

a woman. He should have been Ma and Ma should

have been Pa. Things would have worked out different

ly then. How, I don’t know. I just know they would

have.

I won’t be running away. I’ll be getting away from

them and here, but I won’t really be running away

because the thing that’s inside of me is going along

and always will be where it is. It’s just that I’ve got

/

--- i.

"-

NO Y NO & I48

to do things right and, in order for things to be right,

I’ve got to be in a new place with new people. I’ll talk

to Pa about it. Somebody ought to know and I certain

ly can’t tell Ma. She wouldn’t understand. She never

has and never will. Pa won’t really understand either,

but he’ll agree. Maybe it’ll make him happy. He

should have been a woman, dammit. Poor Ma. Wonder

what kind of hell she’s going through now.

The door latch clicked, the bell tinkled, and a

small boy walked in. He gaped at Ichiro with the

doorknob still in his hand and said: “Who are you?”

“I work here,” he said.

“Oh.” The boy closed the door and proceeded to

the bread rack, where he methodically squeezed each

loaf of bread. “Day-old stuff,” he grimaced and

reluctantly selected a small loaf. He placed it on the

counter and examined the coins in his hand. “Gimme

two black-whips too,” he said.

“Black-whips? What are they?”

“If you work here, how come you don’t know? I

know more'n you.”

“Yeah, you’re smart. What are black-whips?”

“Lik-rish. Them over there.” He pointed behind

Ichiro at the assortment of candy, indicating the long

strips of red and black licorice. “I want the black ones.”

Without further comment, Ichiro took two strips

from the box and handed them to the boy, who put

his coins on the counter and departed after again

eyeing him skeptically.

He was telling himself that he’d better pack his

I49 NO & NO 2

suitcase, when his father called to say that lunch

was ready.

Somehow, he knew that his mother wouldn’t be in

the kitchen, and she wasn’t. After they had been eating

for a while, the father got up and looked into the

bedroom. “Mama,” he said, trying to sound cheerful,

“Mama, come and eat. I made fresh rice and it is

good and hot. You must eat, Mama.”

Rocking hesitantly from one slippered foot to the

other, he suddenly made as if to go in but quickly

stepped back and continued to watch, the sad concern

making the puffiness of his cheeks droop. “Mama,”

he said more quietly and hopelessly, “one has to eat.

It gives strength.”

And still he stood and watched, knowing that no

amount of urging would move the beaten lump on

the edge of the bed and vainly searching for the words

to bring her alive. He brushed an arm to his eye and

pressed his lips into a near pout. “The letter,” he

continued, “the letter, Mama. It could be nothing.”

Hope and encouragement caused his voice to rise in

volume: “Your own sister would never write such a

letter. You have said so yourself. It is not to be be

lieved. Eat now and forget this foolishness.”

Enraged by his father’s retreat, Ichiro swore at

him: “Goddammit, Pa, leave her alone. Feed your

own stupid mouth.”

“Ya, ya,” he mumbled and returned to the table.

He picked distractedly at the food, jabbing the faded

chopsticks repeatedly into the plate only to pinch a

N \

NO Y NO & I50

tiny bit of food, which he placed unappetizingly on

his tongue.

“I’m sorry, Pa.”

“Ya, but you are right. I do not know what I am

doing.”

“She’ll work it out okay.”

“What is she thinking? She is like a baby dog who

has lost its mother.”

“It’ll be all right, Pa,” he said impatiently. “It isn’t

anything she won’t live through.”

The father weighed his words carefully before answer

ing: “You can say that, but, when I see her sitting and

not moving but only sitting like that, I am afraid.”

“Can it, Pa,” he lashed out angrily. “Nothing's

going to happen. Things like this take lots of time.

Look at me. Two years, Pa, two years I’ve thought

about it and I’m not through yet. Maybe I’ll spend

the rest of my life thinking about it.”

The old man looked at him, not understanding how

it was that his problem could be compared to the

mother’s. “You are young,” he said. “Old minds are

not so easily changed. Besides, if it was wrong that

you went to prison, it is over, all done. With Mama,

it is deeper, much harder.”

Hardly believing what his father had said, Ichiro

reared back in his chair, then leaned far forward, at

the same time bringing his fists down on the table so

viciously that the dishes bounced crazily. “You really

think that?”

“What is that?”

“About me. About what I’ve done. I’ve ruined my

I51 No 2 No 3

life for you, for Ma, for Japan. Can’t you see that?”

“You are young, Ichiro. It does not matter so much.

I understand, but i San162.

-“You don’t understand.”—

“Ya, I do. I was young once.”

“You’re a Jap. How can you understand? No. I’m

wrong. You’re nothing. You don’t understand a damn

thing. You don’t understand about me and about Ma

and you’ll never know why it is that Taro had to go

in the army. Goddamn fool, that's what you are, Pa,

a goddamn fool.”

The color crept into the father's face. For a moment

it looked as if he would fight back. Lips compressed

and breathing hastened, he glared at his son who

called him a fool.

Ichiro waited and, in that tense moment, almost

found himself hoping that the father would strike back

with fists or words or both.

The anger drained away with the color as quickly

as it had appeared. “Poor Mama,” he mumbled,

“poor Mama,” and he had to slap his hand to his

mouth for he was that close to crying out.

At the tinkle of the doorbell, the father hastily dabbed

his eyes with a dishcloth and rose heavily from his

chair.

“I’ll go,” said Ichiro to the man who was neither

husband nor father nor Japanese nor American but

a diluted mixture of all, and he went to wait on the

CuStomer.

No 2 No 2 No 2 No 1 6 No 2 No Y No 2 No 1

HOME FOR KENJI was an old frame, two

story, seven-room house which the family rented for

fifty dollars a month from a Japanese owner who had

resettled in Chicago after the war and would probably

never return to Seattle. It sat on the top of a steep,

unpaved hill and commanded an uninspiring view of

clean, gray concrete that was six lanes wide and an

assortment of boxy, flat store buildings and spacious

super gas-stations.

Kenji eased the car over into the left-turn lane and

followed the blinking green arrow toward the hill.

At its foot, he braked the car almost to a full stop

before carefully starting up, for the sharp angle of the

hill and the loose dirt necessitated skill and caution.

As he labored to the top, he saw his father sitting on

the porch reading a newspaper. Before he could

depress the horn ring, the man looked up and waved

casually. He waved back and steered the Oldsmobile

into the driveway.

When he walked around the side of the house and

came up the front, the father said “Hello, Ken” as

matter-of-factly as if he had seen his son a few hours

I53 NO & NO &

previously, and returned his attention to the news

paper to finish the article he had been reading.

“Who’s home, Pop?” he asked, holding out the bag.

“Nobody,” said the father, taking the present and

looking into the bag. It held two fifths of good blended

whisky. He was a big man, almost six feet tall and

strong. As a painter and paper hanger he had no

equal, but he found it sufficient to work only a few

days a week and held himself to it, for his children

were all grown and he no longer saw the need to drive

himself. He smiled warmly and gratefully: “Thank

you.”

“Sure, Pop. One of these days, I’ll bring home

a case.”

“Last me two days. Better bring a truckful,” he

said, feigning seriousness. -

They laughed together comfortably, the father be

a.º.º. loved and respected his father, who was a moderate

and good man. They walked into the house, the

father making the son precede him.

In the dining room the father deposited the two new

bottles with a dozen others in the china cabinet. “I’m

fixed for a long time,” he said. “That’s a good feeling.”

“You’re really getting stocked up,” said Kenji.

“The trust and faith and love of my children,” he

said#.*.*.*.*.*. clothes or

shaving lotion in fancy jars or suitcases or pajamas,

but whisky I can use. I’m happy.”

“Are you, Pop?”

The father sat down opposite his son at the polished

Not No. 154

mahogany table and took in at a glance the new rugs

and furniture and lamps and the big television set

with the radio and phonograph all built into one im

pressive, blond console. “All I did was feed you and

clothe you and spank you once in a while. All of a

sudden, you're all grown up. The government gives

you money, Hisa and Toyo are married to fine boys,

Hana and Tom have splendid jobs, and Eddie is in

college and making more money in a part-time job

than I did for all of us when your mother died. No

longer do I have to work all the time, but only two

or three days a week and I have more money than

I can spend. Yes, Ken, I am happy and I wish your

mother were here to see all this.”

“I’m happy too, Pop.” He shifted his legs to make

himself comfortable and winced unwillingly.

Noticing, the father screwed his face as if the pain

were in himself, for it was. Before the pain turned—to

sorrow, before the suffering for his son made his lips

quiver as he held back the tears, he hastened into the

kitchen and came back with two jigger-glasses.

“I am anxious to sample your present,” he said

jovially, but his movements were hurried as he got

the bottle from the cabinet and fumbled impatiently

with the seal.

Kenji downed his thankfully and watched his father

take the other glass and sniff the whisky appreciatively

before sipping it leisurely. He lifted the bottle toward

his son.

“No more, Pop,” refused Kenji. “That did it fine.”

The father capped the bottle and put it back. He

I55 No 2 No 2

closed the cabinet door and let his hand linger on the

knob as if ashamed of himself - ſº

cheerful when he knew that the pain was again in his

- son and the thought of death hovered over them.

“Pop.” -

“Yes?” He turned slowly to face his son.

“Come on. Sit down. It’ll be all right.”

Sitting down, the father shook his head, saying:

“I came to America to become a rich man so that

I could go back to the village in Japan and be some

body. I was greedy and ambitious and proud. I was

not a good man or an intelligent one, but a young

fool. And you have paid for it.”

“What kin is that?” replied Kenji, genuinely

grieved. “That's not true at all.”

“That is what I think nevertheless. I am to blame.”

“It’ll be okay, Pop. Maybe they won't EVETOper

ate.”

“When do you go?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“I will go with you.”

“No.” He looked straight at his father.

In answer, the father merely nodded, acceding to

his son’s wish because his son was a man who had gone

to war to fight for the abundance and - at

pervaded a Japanese household in America and that

Twas a thing he himself could never fully comprehend

except to know that it was very dear. He had long for

gotten when it was that he had discarded the notion

of a return to Japan but remembered only that it was

the time when this country which he had no intention

NO Y NO & I56

of loving had suddenly begun to become

him because it was a part of his children and he saw

and felt it in their speech and joys and sor and

hopes and he was a part of them. And in-the-dying

of the foolish dreams which he had brought-to-Ameriea,

the richness of the life that was possible in this foreign

country destroyed the longing for a past that really

must not have been as precious as he imagined or **

else he would surely not have left it. Where else could

a man, left alone with six small children, have found

it possible to have had so much with so little? He had

not begged or borrowed or gone to the city for welfare

assistance. There had been times of hunger and de

spair and seeming hopelessness, but did it not mean

something now that he could look around and feel

the love of the men and women who were once only

children? - --~~

And there was the one who sat before him, the one

who had come to him and said calmly that he was

going into the army.[It could not be said then that it

mattered not that he was a Japanese son of Japanese

parents. It had mattered. It was because he was Japa

nese that the son had to come to his Japanese father

and simply state that he had decided to volunteer for

the army instead of being able to wait until such time

as the army called him. It was because he was Japanese

and, at the same time, had to prove to the world that

he was not Japanese that the turmoil was in his soul

and urged him to enlist. There was confusion, but,

underneath it, a conviction that he loved America

and would fight and die for it because he did not wish

I57 NO Y NO &

to live anyplace else. And the father, also confused,

understood what the son had not said and gave his

consent. It was not a time for clear thinking because

the sense of loyalty had become dispersed and the

shaken faith of an American interned in an American

concentration camp was indeed a flimsy thing. So, on

this steadfast bit of conviction that remained, and

knowing not what the future held, this son had go

to war to prove that he deserved to enjoy those rights

which should rightfully hav -

nd he remembered that a week after Kenji had

gone to a camp in Mississippi, the neighbor’s son,

an American soldier since before Pearl Harbor, had

come to see his family which was in a camp enclosed

by wire fencing and had guards who were American

soldiers like himself. And he had been present when

the soldier bitterly spoke of how all he did was dump

garbage and wash dishes and take care of the latrines.

And the soldier swore and ranted and could hardly

make himself speak of the time when the president

named Roosevelt had come to the camp in Kansas

and all the American soldiers in the camp who were

Japanese had been herded into a warehouse and

guarded by other American soldiers with machine

guns until the president named Roosevelt had departed.

And he had gone to his own cubicle with the seven

steel cots and the pot-bellied stove and the canvas

picnic-chairs from Sears Roebuck and cried for Kenji,

who was now a soldier and would not merely turn

bitter and swear if the army let him do only such

things as the soldier had spoken of, but would be

No 2 NO & I58

driven to protest more violently because he was the

- quiet one with the deep feelings whose anger was

a terrible thing. But, with training over, Kenji had

written that he was going to Europe, and the next

letter was from Italy, where the Americans were

fighting the Germans, and he found relief in the knowl

edge, partly because Kenji was fighting and he knew

that was what his son wished and partly because the

enemy was German and not Japanese.

He thought he remembered that he had not wanted

Kenji to go into the army. But when he was asked, he

had said yes. And so this son had come back after long

months in a hospital with one good leg and another

that was only a stick where the other good one had

been. Had he done right? Should he not have forbidden

him? Should he not have explained how it was not

sensible for Japanese to fight a war against Japanese?

If what he had done was wrong, how was it so and

why?

“Would you,” he said to his son, “have stayed out

of the army if I had forbidden it?”

Kenji did not answer immediately, for the question

came as a surprise to disturb the long, thought-filled

silence. “I don’t think so, Pop,” he started out hesi

tantly. He paused, delving into his mind for an ex

planation, then said with great finality: “No, I would

have gone anyway.”

“Of course,” said the father, finding some assurance

in the answer.

Kenji pushed himself to a standing position and

I59 NO Y NO &

spoke gently: “You’re not to blame, Pop. Every time

we get to talking like this, I know you're blaming

yourself. Don’t do it. Nobody’s to blame, nobody.”

“To lose a leg is not the worst thing, but, to lose a

part of it and then a little more and a little more again

until . . . Well, I don’t understand. You don’t de

serve it.” He shrugged his shoulders wearily against

the weight of his terrible anguish.

“I’m going up to take a nap.” He walked a few

steps and turned back to his father. “I’ll go upstairs

and lie down on the bed and I won’t sleep right away

because the leg will hurt a little and I’ll be thinking.

And I’ll think that if things had been different, if you

had been different, it might have been that I would

also not have been the same and maybe you would

have kept me from going into the war and I would

have stayed out and had both my legs. But, you know,

every time I think about it that way, I also have to

think that, had such been the case, you and I would

probably not be sitting down and having a drink to

gether and talking or not talking as we wished. If my §

leg hurts, so what? We’re buddies, aren’t we? That

counts. I don’t worry about anything else.”

Up in his room, he stretched out on his back on the

bed and thought about what he had said to his father.

It made a lot of sense. If, in the course of things, the

pattern called for a stump of a leg that wouldn’t stay

healed, he wasn’t going to decry the fact, for that

would mean another pattern with attendant changes

which might not be as perfectly desirable as the one

º

NO Y NO & I60

he cherished. Things are as they should be, he assured

himself, and, feeling greatly at peace, sleep came

with surprising ease.

After Kenji had left him, the father walked down

the hill to the neighborhood Safeway and bought a

large roasting chicken. It was a fat bird with bulging

drumsticks and, as he headed back to the house with

both arms supporting the ingredients of an ample

family feast, he thought of the lean years and the six

small ones and the pinched, hungry faces that had

been taught not to ask for more but could not be

taught how not to look hungry when they were in

fact quite hungry. And it was during those years that

it seemed as if they would never have enough.

But such a time had come. It had come with the

war and the growing of the children and it had come

with the return of the thoughtful son whose terrible

wound paid no heed to the cessation of hostilities.

Yet, the son had said he was happy and the father was

happy also for, while one might grieve for the limb

that was lost and the pain that endured, he chose to

feel gratitude for the fact that the son had come back

alive even if only for a brief while.

And he remembered what the young sociologist

had said in halting, pained Japanese at one of the

family-relations meetings he had attended while

interned in the relocation center because it was some

place to go. The instructor was a recent college gradu

ate who had later left the camp to do graduate work at

a famous Eastern school. He, short fellow that he was,

_r=.

J

I61 No 2 No 2

had stood on an orange crate so that he might be

better heard and seen by the sea of elderly men and

women who had been attracted to the mess hall because

they too had nothing else to do and nowhere else to

go. There had been many meetings, although it had

early become evident that lecturer and audience were

poles apart, and if anything had been accomplished

it was that the meetings helped to pass the time, and

so the instructor continued to blast away at the un

yielding wall of indifference and the old people came

to pass an hour or two. But it was on this particular

night that the small sociologist, struggling for the words

painstakingly and not always correctly selected from

his meager knowledge of the Japanese language, had

managed to impart a message of great truth. And this

meS .*.*.*.*.*.*.*. mothers, who sat courteously attentive, did not now/

their own sons and daughters.

“How many of you are able to sit down with your

own sons and own daughters and enjoy the com

panionship of conversation? How many, I ask? If I

were to say none of you, I would not be far from the

truth.” He paused, for the grumbling was swollen with

anger and indignation, and continued in a loud, shout

ing voice before it could engulf him: “You are not

displeased because of what I said but because I have

hit upon the truth. And I know it to be true because

I am a Nisei and you old ones are like my own father

..."...º.º.º.the sons and daughters of our parents, it is because you have failed. It is because you have been stupid

No 2 NO 2 I62

enough to think that growing rice in muddy fields is

the same as growing a giant fir tree. Change, now, if

you can, even if it may be too late, and become com

panions to your children. This is America, where you

have lived and worked and suffered for thirty and

forty years. This is not Japan. I will tell you what it

is like to be an American boy or girl. I will tell you

what the relationship between parents and children

is in an American family. As I speak, compare what

I say with your own families.” And so he had spoken

and the old people had listened and, when the meeting

was over, they got up and scattered over the camp

toward their assigned cubicles. Some said they would

attend no more lectures; others heaped hateful abuse

upon the young fool who dared to have spoken with

such disrespect; and then there was the elderly couple,

the woman silently following the man, who stopped

at another mess hall, where a dance was in progress,

and peered into the dimly lit room and watched the

young boys and girls gliding effortlessly around to the

blaring music from a phonograph. Always before, they

had found something to say about the decadent ways

of an amoral nation, but, on this evening, they watched

longer than usual and searched longingly to recognize

their own daughter, whom they knew to he

.*.*. only an unrecognizable shadow among the other shadows. . . . . -

Halting for a moment to shift the bag, Kenji's father

started up the hill with a smile on hia-lips. He was

glad that the market had had such a fine roasting .

chicken. There was nothing as satisfying as sitting at

I63 NO Y NO &

a well-laden table with one’s family whether the

occasion was a holiday or a birthday or a home-coming

of some member or, yes, even if it meant someone

was going away.

Please come back, Ken, he said to himself, please

come back and I will have for you the biggest, fattest

chicken that ever graced a table, American or other

WISC.

Hanako, who was chubby and pleasant and kept

books for three doctors and a dentist in a downtown

office, came home before Tom, who was big and

husky like his father and had gone straight from high

school into a drafting job at an aircraft plant. She had

seen the car in the driveway and smelled the chicken

in the oven and, smiling sympathetically with the

father, put a clean cloth on the table and took out

the little chest of Wm. & Rogers Silverplate.

While she was making the salad, Tom came home

bearing a bakery pie in a flat, white box. “Hello, Pop,

Sis,” he said, putting the box on the table. “Where's

Ken?”

“Taking a nap,” said Hanako.

“Dinner about ready?” He sniffed appreciatively

and rubbed his stomach in approval.

“Just about,” smiled his sister.

“Psychic, that’s what I am.”

“What?”

“I say I’m psychic. I brought home a lemon

meringue. Chicken and lemon meringue. Boy! Don’t

you think so?”

5

No 2 No 2 I64

“What’s that?”

“About my being psychic.”

“You’re always bringing home lemon meringue.

Coincidence, that’s all.”

“How soon do we eat?”

“I just got through telling you—in a little while,”

she replied a bit impatiently.

“Good. I’m starved. I’ll wash up and rouse the

boy.” He started to head for the stairs but turned

back thoughtfully. “What’s the occasion?” he asked.

“Ken has to go to the hospital again,” said the

father kindly. “Wash yourself at the sink and let him

sleep a while longer. We will eat when he wakes up.”

“Sure,” said Tom, now sharing the unspoken sadness

and terror which abided in the hearts of his father and

sister. He went to the sink and, clearing it carefully

of the pots and dishes, washed himself as quietly as

possible.

It was a whole hour before Kenji came thumping

down the stairs. It was the right leg, the good one,

that made the thumps which followed the empty pauses

when the false leg was gently lowered a step. When

he saw the family sitting lazily around the table, he

knew that they had waited for him.

“You shouldn’t have waited,” he said, a little em

barrassed. “I slept longer than I intended.”

“We’re waiting for the chicken,” lied the father.

“Takes time to roast a big one.”

Hanako agreed too hastily: “Oh, yes, I’ve never

known a chicken to take so long. Ought to be just

about ready now.” She trotted into the kitchen and,

165 No? No:

a moment later, shouted back: “It’s ready. Mmmm,

can you smell it?”

“That’s all I’ve been doing,” Tom said with a

famished grin. “Let’s get it out here.”

“Sorry I made you wait,” smiled Kenji at his

brother.

Tom, regretting his impatience, shook his head

vigorously. “No, it's the bird, like Pop said. You

know how he is. Always gets 'em big and tough.

This one’s made of cast iron.” He followed Hanako

to help bring the food from the kitchen.

No one said much during the first part of the dinner.

Tom ate ravenously. Hanako seemed about to say

something several times but couldn’t bring herself

to speak. The father kept looking at Kenji without

having to say what it was that he felt for his son.

Surprisingly, it was Tom who broached the subject

which was on all their minds.

“What the hell’s the matter with those damn

doctors?” He slammed his fork angrily against the

table.

“Tom, please,” said Hanako, looking deeply con

cerned.

“No, no, no,” he said, gesturing freely with his

hands, “I won’t please shut up. If they can’t fix you

up, why don’t they get somebody who can? They’re

killing you. What do they do when you go down there?

Give you aspirins?” Slumped in his chair, he glared

furiously at the table.

The father grasped Tom's arm firmly. “If you

can’t talk sense, don't.”

NO Y NO & I66

“It's okay, Tom. This’ll be a short trip. I think it's

just that the brace doesn’t fit right.”

“You mean that?” He looked hopefully at Kenji.

“Sure. That’s probably what it is. I’ll only be gone

a few days. Doesn’t really hurt so much, but I don’t

want to take any chances.”

“Gee, I hope you’re right.”

“I ought to know. A few more trips and they'll make

me head surgeon down there.”

“Yeah,” Tom smiled, not because of the joke, but

because he was grateful for having a brother like

Kenji.

~"Eat,” reminded the father, “baseball on television

tonight, you know.”

“I’ll get the pie,” Hanako said and hastened to the

kitchen.

“Lemon meringue,” said Tom hungrily, as he pro

ceeded to clean up his plate.

The game was in its second inning when they turned

the set on, and they had hardly gotten settled down

when Hisa and Toyo came with their husbands and

children.

Tom grumbled good naturedly and, giving the

newcomers a hasty nod, pulled up closer to the set,

preparing to watch the game under what would

obviously be difficult conditions.

Hats and coats were shed and piled in the corner

and everyone talked loudly and excitedly, as if they

had not seen each other for a long time. Chairs were

brought in from the dining room and, suddenly, the

place was full and noisy and crowded and comfortable.

3.

I67 NO Y NO &

The father gave up trying to follow the game and

bounced a year-old granddaughter on his knee while

two young grandsons fought to conquer the other knee.

The remaining three grandchildren were all girls,

older, more well-behaved, and they huddled on the

floor around Tom to watch the baseball game.

Hisa's husband sat beside Kenji and engaged him

in conversation, mostly about fishing and about how

he’d like to win a car in the Salmon Derby because

his was getting old and a coupe wasn’t too practical

for a big family. He had the four girls and probably

wouldn’t stop until he hit a boy and things weren’t

so bad, but he couldn’t see his way to acquiring a near

new used car for a while. And then he got up and

went to tell the same thing to his father-in-law, who

was something of a fisherman himself. No sooner had

he moved across the room than Toyo’s husband, who

was soft-spoken and mild but had been a captain in

the army and sold enough insurance to keep two cars

in the double garage behind a large brick house in

a pretty good neighborhood, slid into the empty space

beside Kenji and asked him how he’d been and so on

and talked about a lot of other things when he really

wanted to talk to Kenji about the leg and didn’t

know how.

Then came the first lull when talk died down and

the younger children were showing signs of drowsiness

and everyone smiled thoughtfully and contentedly

at one another. Hanako suggested refreshments, and

when the coffee and milk and pop and cookies and

ice cream were distributed, everyone got his second

NO & NO & I68

wind and immediately discovered a number of things

which they had forgotten to discuss.

*...*.*.*.*.*.*.and said to himself: Now’s as good a time as any to go. I won’t wait until tomorrow. In another thirty

minutes Hana and Toyo and the kids and their fathers

will start stretching and heading for their hats and

coats. Then someone will say “Well, Ken” in a kind

of hesitant way and, immediately, they will all be

struggling for something to say about my going to

Portland because Hana called them and told them

to come over because I’m going down there again

and that’s why they’ll have to say something about

it. If I had said to Pop that I was going the day after

tomorrow, we would have had a big feast with every

one here for it tomorrow night. I don’t want that.

There’s no need for it. I don’t want Toyo to cry and

Hana to dab at her eyes and I don’t want everyone

standing around trying to say goodbye and not being

able to make themselves leave because maybe they

won’t see me again.

He started to get up and saw Hanako looking at

him. “I’m just going to get a drink,” he said.

“Stay, I’ll get it,” she replied.

“No. It’ll give me a chance to stretch.” He caught

his father’s eye and held it for a moment.

Without getting his drink, he slipped quietly out

to the back porch and stood and waited and listened

to the voices inside.

He heard Hisa's husband yell something to one of

his girls and, the next minute, everyone was laughing

I69 NO Y NO &

amusedly. While he was wondering what cute deviltry

the guilty one had done, his father came through the

kitchen and out to stand beside him.

“You are going.”

Kenji looked up and saw the big shoulders sagging

wearily. “I got a good rest, Pop. This way, I’ll be there

in the morning and it’s easier driving at night. Not

so many cars, you know.”

“It’s pretty bad this time, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said truthfully, because he could—not lie.

to his father, “it’s not like before, Pop. It’s differentºs

this time. The pain is heavier, deeper. Not sharp and

raw like the other times. I don’t know why. I’m

scared.”

“If . . . if . . .” Throwing his arm around his

son's neck impulsively, the father hugged him close.

“You call me every day. Every day, you understand?”

“Sure, Pop. Explain to everyone, will you?” He

pulled himself free and looked at his father nodding,

unable to speak.

Pausing halfway down the stairs, he listened once

more for the voices in the house.

Hoarsely, in choked syllables, his father spoke to

him: “Every day, Ken, don’t forget. I will be home.”

“Bye, Pop.” Feeling his way along the dark drive

with his cane, he limped to the car. Behind the wheel,

he had to sit and wait until the heaviness had lifted

from his chest and relieved the mistiness of his eyes.

He started the motor and turned on the headlights

and their brilliant glare caught fully the father standing

ahead. Urged by an overwhelming desire to rush back

No 2 No 2 I70

to him and be with him for a few minutes longer,

Kenji’s hand fumbled for the door handle. At that

moment, the father raised his arm once slowly in

farewell. Quickly, he pulled back out of the driveway

and was soon out of sight of father and home and

family.

He fully intended to drive directly to the grocery

store to get Ichiro, but found himself drawn to the

Club Oriental. Parking in the vacant lot where only

the previous night Ichiro had experienced his humili

ation, he limped through the dark alley to the club.

It was only a little after ten, but the bar and tables

were crowded. Ignoring several invitations to sit at

tables of acquaintances, he threaded his way to the

end of the bar and had only to wait a moment before

Al saw him and brought the usual bourbon and water.

Not until he was on his third leisurely drink did he

manage to secure a stool. It was between strangers,

and for that he was grateful. He didn’t want to talk

or be talked to. Through the vast mirror ahead, he

studied the faces alongside and behind him. By craning

a bit, he could even catch an occasional glimpse of

couples on the dance floor.

It’s a nice place, he thought. When a fellow goes

away, he likes to take something along to remember

and this is what I’m taking. It’s not like having a

million bucks and sitting in the Waldorf with a long

stemmed beauty, but I’m a small guy with small

wants and this is my Waldorf. Here, as long as I’ve

I71 No 3 NO &

got the price of a drink, I can sit all night and

among friends. I can relax and drink and feel sad or

happy or high and nobody much gives a damn, since

they feel the same way. It’s a good feeling, a fine

feeling.

He followed Al around with his eyes until the

bartender looked back at him and returned the smile.

The help knows me and likes me.

Swinging around on the stool, he surveyed the X

crowd and acknowledged a number of greetings and º \ nods. -

I've got a lot of fiends here and they know and \º like me. - -

Jim Eng, the slender, dapper Chinese who ran the &

place, came out of the office with a bagful of change

and brought it behind the bar to check the register.

As he did so, he grinned at Kenji and inquired about

his leg.

Even the management’s on my side. It’s like a home

away from home only more precious because one

expects home to be like that. Not many places a Jap

can go to and feel so completely at ease. It must be

nice to be white and American and to be able to feel

like this no matter where one goes to, but I won’t cry

about that. There’s been a war and, suddenly, things

are better for the Japs and the Chinks and—

There was a commotion at the entrance and Jim

Eng slammed the cash drawer shut and raced toward

the loud voices. He spoke briefly to someone in the

office, probably to find out the cause of the dis

No 2 No 2 I72

turbance, and then stepped outside. As he did so,

Kenji caught sight of three youths, a Japanese and

two Negroes.

After what sounded like considerable loud and

excited shouting, Jim Eng stormed back in and

resumed his task at the register though with hands

shaking.

When he had calmed down a little, someone in

quired: “What's the trouble?”

“No trouble,” he said in a high-pitched voice which

he was endeavoring to keep steady. “That crazy Jap

boy Floyd tried to get in with two niggers. That’s

the second time he tried that. What’s the matter

with him?”

A Japanese beside Kenji shouted out sneeringly:

“Them ignorant cotton pickers make me sick. You

let one in and before you know it, the place will be

black as night.”

“Sure,” said Jim Eng, “sure. I got no use for them.

Nothing but trouble they make and I run a clean

place.”

“Hail Columbia,” said a small, drunken voice.

“Oh, you Japs and Chinks, I love you all,” rasped

out a brash redhead who looked as if she had come

directly from one of the burlesque houses without

changing her make-up. She struggled to her feet, obvi

ously intending to launch into further oratory.

Her escort, a pale, lanky Japanese screamed “Shut

up!” and, at the same time, pulled viciously at her

arm, causing her to tumble comically into the chair.

Everyone laughed, or so it seemed, and quiet and

I73 NO 2 NO 2

decency and cleanliness and honesty returned to the

Club Oriental.

Leaving his drink unfinished, Kenji left the club

without returning any of the farewells which were

directed at him.

He drove aimlessly, torturning himself repeatedly

with the question which plagued his mind and con

fused it to the point of madness. Was there no answer

to the bigotry and meanness and smallness and ugliness

of people? One hears the voice of the Negro or Japa

nese or Chinese or Jew, a clear and bell-like intonation

of the common struggle for recognition as a complete

human being re is a sense of uni

which inspires one to hope and optimism. One en

#########". is not without patience and intelligence and humility,

and the opposition weakens and wavers and disperses.

And the one who is the Negro or Japanese or Chinese

or Jew is further fortified and gladdened with the

knowledge that emocrac

on his side and, therefore, only time is needed before

the democracy is a democracy in fact for all of them

One has hope, for he has reason to hope, and the

uest for completeness seems to be a thing near at hand, and then . . . \\

the woman with the dark hair and large nose who dº,

has barely learned to speak English makes a big show

of vacating her bus seat when a Negro occupies the

other half. She stamps indignantly down the aisle,

hastening away from the contamination which is only

in her contaminated mind. The Negro stares silently

*

\

No 3 NO & I74

out of the window, a proud calmness on his face,

which hides the boiling fury that is capable of murder.

and then . . . -

a sweet-looking Chinese girl is at a high-school

prom with a white boy. She has risen in the world,

or so she thinks, for it is evident in her expression and

manner. She does not entirely ignore the other Chinese

and Japanese at the dance, which would at least be

honest, but worse, she flaunts her newly found status

in their faces with haughty smiles and overly polite

phrases.

and then . . .

there is the small Italian restaurant underneath a

pool parlor, where the spaghetti and chicken is hard

to beat. The Japanese, who feels he is better than the

Chinese because his parents made him so, comes into

the restaurant with a Jewish companion, who is a good

Jew and young and American and not like the kike

bastards from the countries from which they’ve been

kicked out, and waits patiently for the waiter. None

of the waiters come, although the place is quite empty

and two of them are talking not ten feet away. All

his efforts to attract them failing, he stalks toward

them. The two, who are supposed to wait on the tables

but do not, scurry into the kitchen. In a moment

they return with the cook, who is also the owner, and

he tells the Japanese that the place is not for Japs and

to get out and go back to Tokyo.

and then . . .

the Negro who was always being mistaken for a

white man becomes a white man and he becomes

I75 NO Y NO &

hated by the Negroes with whom he once hated ...) the same side. And the young Japanese hates the

not-so-young Japanese who is more Japanese than

himself, and the not-so-young, in turn, hates the old

Japanese who is all Japanese and, therefore, even

more Japanese than he. . . .

And Kenji thought about these things and tried to

organize them in his mind so that the pattern could

be seen and studied and the answers deduced there- o' from. And there was no answer because there was no \\(0

pattern and all he could feel was that the world was o"

full of hatred. And he drove on and on and it was º almost two o'clock when he parked in front of the

grocery store.

The street was quiet, deathly so after he had cut the

ignition. Down a block or so, he saw the floodlighted

sign painted on the side of a large brick building.

It said: “444 Rooms. Clean. Running Water. Reasona

ble Rates.” He had been in there once a long time

ago and he knew that it was just a big flophouse full

of drunks and vagrant souls. Only a few tiny squares

of yellowish light punctuated the softly shimmering

rows of windowpanes. Still, the grocery store was

brightly lit.

Wondering why, he slid out of the car and peered

through the upper half of the door, which was of

glass. He was immediately impressed with the neatness

of the shelves and the cleanness of the paint on the

walls and woodwork. Inevitably, he saw Ichiro's

mother and it gave him an odd sensation as he watched

her methodically empty a case of evaporated milk

\

No 3 NO 2 I76

and line the cans with painful precision on the shelf.

He tried the door and found it locked and decided

not to disturb her until she finished the case. It was

a long wait, for she grasped only a single can with

both hands each time she stooped to reach into the

box. Finally, she finished and stood as if examining

her handiwork.

Kenji rapped briskly on the door but she took no

notice. Instead, she reached out suddenly with her

arms and swept the cans to the floor. Then she just

stood with arms hanging limply at her sides, a small

girl of a woman who might have been pouting from

the way her head drooped and her back humped.

So intent was he upon watching her that he jumped

when the door opened. It was Ichiro, dressed only in

a pair of slacks.

“You’re early,” he said, blinking his eyes sleepily.

“Yes. Is it okay?”

“Sure. Be ready in a minute. Can’t get any sleep

anyway.” He shut the door without asking Kenji

inside and disappeared into the back.

Looking back to where the woman had been, he was

astonished not to see her. He searched about and

eventually spied her on hands and knees retrieving a

can which had rolled under one of the display islands.

He followed her as she crawled around in pursuit of

more cans, which she was now packing back into

the case. Ichiro came out with a suitcase and went

directly to the car.

Kenji looked once more before driving off and

I77 No 3 NO &

noticed that she, having gathered all the cans, was

once more lining them on the same shelf.

“We'll make good time driving at night. Won’t be

so many cars on the road.” Out of the corner of his

eye he watched Ichiro light a cigarette.

“Snapped,” he said harshly.

“What?”

“Snapped. Flipped. Messed up her gears.” Drawing

deeply on the cigarette, he exhaled a stream of smoke

noisily. He twisted about on the seat as if in great

anguish.

“Is it all right for you to be going?”

“Sure, sure, nothing I can do. It’s been coming for

a long time.”

“You knew?”

Ichiro rolled down the window and flung the lighted

butt into the wind. As it whisked back, spraying specks

of red into the dark, he craned his neck to watch it

until it disappeared from sight. “Something had to

happen,” he said, cranking the window shut. “Still,

I guess you could say she’s been crazy a long time.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Maybe ever since the day she was

born.” He turned abruptly to face Kenji and said

appealingly: “Tell me, what's your father like?”

“My dad is one swell guy. We get along.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why. We just do.”

Ichiro laughed.

“What's funny?”

No. No: 178

“Things, everything’s funny because nothing makes

sense. There was an Italian fellow in prison I used to

talk to. Sometimes I’d confide in him because he once

wanted to be a priest and so he was the kind of guy

you could talk to. He got sent up for taking money

from old ladies. You can see what I mean. I used to

tell him about how tough it was for kids of immigrants

because parents and kids were so different and they

never really got to know each other. He knew whatT

I meant because his folks were born in Italy and raised

there. And he used to tell me not to worry because

there would come a time when I’d feel as if I really

knew my folks. He said the time would come when

I grew up. Just how or when was hard to say because

it’s different with everyone. With him, it was when

he was thirty-five and went home on parole after four

years in prison. Then it happened. He sat at the kitchen

table like he’d been doing all his life and he looked

at his mother and then at his father and he no longer

had the urge to eat and run. He wanted to talk to

them and they talked all through that night and he

was so happy he cried.”

Slowing down a little, Kenji pointed through the

windshield. “That road goes to Emi’s place. Go see

her when you get a chance.”

Ichiro didn’t answer, but he seemed to be studying

the landmarks. “It won’t ever happen to me,” he said.

“What won’t happen?”

“The thing that happened to the Italian.”

“You never can tell.”

“She’s really crazy now. You saw her with those

I7 NO Y NO 2

milk cans. Ever since eight o’clock tonight. Puts them

on the shelf, knocks them down, and puts them back

up again. What’s she trying to prove?”

“Aren’t you worried?”

“No. I’ve been more worried about you.”

After that, they didn’t talk very much. Some eighty

miles out of Seattle, they stopped for coffee and

sandwiches at a roadside café and then Ichiro took

over the wheel. There were few cars on the road and

he drove swiftly, not bothering to slow down from

sixty-five or seventy to twenty-five or thirty as specified

on the signs leading into small towns where nothing

was open or no one was up at about five o’clock in

the morning. As the needle of the speedometer hovered

just under seventy for almost an hour without any

letdown except for forced caution at curves, monotony

slowly set in and it began to feel as if all that separated

them from Portland was an interminable stretch of

asphalt and concrete cutting through the darkness.

Occasionally, Ichiro would feel his foot easing down

even harder on the accelerator pedal, but he restrained

himself from tempting danger. Rounding a curve and

shooting down a long hill, he saw a bunch of houses

sitting darkly and quietly at the bottom in the filmy

haze of earliest morning. The trees and foliage along

the highway thinned out visibly as the car sped closer

to the village and, as always, the signs began to appear.

“Approaching Midvale, Lower Speed to 40. Speed

Laws Strictly Enforced.” “You Are Now Entering

Midvale. Population 367.” “20 MPH. Street Pa

No 2 NO & I80

trolled.” He had almost traversed the eight or ten

blocks which comprised the village and was looking

for the sign which would tell him that he was leaving

Midvale and thank you for observing the law and

come back again, when he became aware of the siren

building up to an awful scream in the night.

“Damn,” he uttered, “lousy bastards.”

“Slow down,” said Kenji, suddenly coming alive.

He moved to the middle of the seat. “When he pulls

up ahead, switch places.”

The plain, black Ford sedan with the blinking red

light on its roof passed and cut in ahead of them.

Just before they came to a halt, Ichiro rose and let

Kenji slide in behind him.

They saw the big, uniformed cop get out of the

Ford and lumber toward them. Pointing a long flash

light into the car, he played it mercilessly on their

faces. “Going pretty fast,” he said.

They didn’t answer, knowing that whatever they

said would be wrongly construed.

“What were you doing?” the cop demanded.

“Forty-five, maybe fifty,” said Kenji, blinking into

the light.

“Seventy,” said the cop. “You were doing seventy.”

He walked around the car and got in beside Ichiro.

“Drive back through town.”

Kenji made a U-turn and drove slowly to the sign

which said “20 MPH. Street Patrolled.”

“You Japs can read, can’t you?”

“Sure,” said Kenji.

/Q

I81 No 2 No 2

“Read what it says there,” he ordered as he shined

his light on the sign.

“Twenty M-P-H. Street Patrolled,” read Kenji in

a flat, low voice.

Then they drove back to where the Ford was parked.

Even sitting down, the cop towered over them, his

broad, heavy features set into an uncompromising

grimace. “Well?” he said.

“We’re guilty. Put us in jail,” answered Kenji.

“We’re in no hurry.”

The cop laughed. “Funny. You got a sense of

humor.” He reared back and, when he settled down,

his manner was obviously more friendly. “Tell you

what. Next court won’t be until the day after tomorrow.

Now, you don’t want to come all the way back here

and get fined fifty bucks. That’s what it’s going to

be, you know. You haven’t got a chance.”

“No, I guess we haven’t.” Kenji was not going to

accept the cordiality of the cop.

“You might just happen to go over to my car and

accidentally drop ten bucks on the seat. Simple?”

“We haven’t got ten bucks between us.”

“Five? I’m not hard to please.” He was grinning

openly now.

“Give me the ticket. I’ll show up for court.” There

was no mistaking the enmity in his voice.

“All right, smart guy, let's have your license.” The

cop pulled out his pad furiously and began scribbling

out a ticket.

Hurtling over the road again, with Kenji driving

No 2 NO & I82

intently as if trying to flee as quickly as possible from

the infuriating incident, Ichiro picked up the ticket

and studied it under the illumination from the dash.

“Son of a bitch,” he groaned, “he’s got us down for

eighty, drunk driving, and attempting to bribe.”

Before he could say more of what was seething

through his mind, Kenji grabbed the piece of paper

out of his hand and, crumpling it hatefully, flung it

out of the window. -

Not until they got into Portland two hours later and

were having breakfast did they feel the necessity to

talk. Ichiro was watching an individual in overalls,

with a lunch box under one arm, pounding determined

ly on a pinball machine.

“What will you do?” he asked Ichiro.

Waiting until the waitress had set their plates down,

Ichiro replied: “I’m not sure. I’ll be all right.”

“When you get ready to go, take the car.”

Sensing something in the way Kenji had spoken,

Ichiro looked up uncomfortably. “I’ll wait for you.

I might even look for a job down here.”

“Fine. You ought to do something.”

“When will you know about the leg?”

“A day or two.”

“What do you think?”

“I’m worried. I get a feeling that this is it.”

Shocked for a moment by the implication of his

friend’s words, Ichiro fiddled uneasily with his fork.

When he spoke it was with too much eagerness. “That's

no way to talk,” he said confidently, but feeling

inside his own terror. “They’ll fix you up. I know

I83 NO 2 NO 2

they will. Hell, in a few days, we’ll go back to Seattle

together.”

“Just before I left last night, I told my pop about

it. I told him it was different this time. I told him

I was scared. I’ve never lied to him.”

“But you can be wrong. You’ve got to be wrong.

A fellow just doesn’t say this is it, I’m going to die.

Things never turn out the way you think. You’re going

to be okay.”

“Sure, maybe I will. Maybe I am wrong,” he said,

but, in the way he said it, he might just as well have

said this is one time when I know that, no matter how

much I wish I were wrong, I don’t think I am.

The waitress came back with a silex pot and poured

coffee into their cups. The overalled man at the pin

ball machine sighted his bus coming down the street

and, shooting three balls in quick succession, dashed

out of the café.

Ichiro buttered a half-slice of toast and chewed off

a piece almost reluctantly. When they had finished

he picked up the bill for a dollar-eighty and noticed

that Kenji left a half dollar on the table.

Driving through town to the hospital, they ran

into the morning traffic and it was nearly nine o’clock

or almost an hour after leaving the café when they

reached their destination. It was a big, new hospital

with plenty of glass and neat, green lawns on all sides.

They walked up the steps together and halted in

front of the doorway. Kenji was smiling.

Ichiro gazed at him wonderingly. “You seem to be

all right.”

No 2 No 2 I84

“I was thinking about that cop. I bet he can’t wait

to see me in court and get the book thrown at me.

He'll have to come a long ways to catch up with this

Jap.” He stuck out his hand stiffly. -

Grabbing it but not shaking, Ichiro managed with

some distinctness: “I’ll be in to see you.”

“Don’t wait too long.” Avoiding the revolving door,

he stepped to the side and entered the hospital

through a swinging glass door.

No 2 No 2 No 2 No 1 7 No 2 No 2 No 2 No 1

ALONE AND FEELING very much his alone

ness, Ichiro drove the Oldsmobile back into the city

proper and found a room in a small, clean hotel where

the rates seemed reasonable. Having picked up a news

paper in the lobby, he turned to the classified section

and studied the job ads. Most of them were for skilled

or technical help, and only after considerable searching

was he finally able to encircle with pencil three jobs

which he felt he might be able to investigate with some

degree of hope. Putting the paper aside, he washed,

shaved, and put on a clean shirt.

I mustn't hesitate, he told himself. If I don’t start

right now and make myself look for work, I’ll lose

my nerve. There's no one to help me or give me courage

now. All I know is that I’ve just got to find work.

With the folded paper under his arm, he walked

the six blocks to the hotel which was advertising for

porters. It was a big hotel with a fancy marquee that

extended out to the street and, as he walked past it,

he noticed a doorman stationed at the entrance. He

went down to the end of the block and approached

the hotel once more. He paused to light a cigarette.

NO Y NO 2 I86

Then, when he saw the doorman watching, he started

toward him.

“If it’s a job you want, son, take the employee's

entrance in the alley,” said the doorman before he

could speak.

He muttered his thanks a bit unsteadily and pro

ceeded around and through the alley. There was a

sign over the door for which he was looking, and he

went through it and followed other signs down the

corridor to the employment office. Inside, two men

and a woman, obviously other job seekers, sat at a

long table filling out forms. A white-haired man in

a dark suit, sitting behind a desk, looked at him and

pointed to the wall. On it was another sign, a large

one, instructing applicants to fill out one of the forms

stacked on the long table, with pen and ink. He sat

opposite the woman and studied the questions on the

form. With some relief, he noted that there was nothing

on the front that he couldn’t adequately answer. As

he turned it over, he saw the questions he couldn’t

answer. How was he to account for the past two years

of the five for which they wanted such information

as name of employer and work experience? What was

he to put down as an alternative for military duty?

- lie big enough to cover the enormity

of his mistake. He put the form back on the stack

and left without satisfying the questioning look on

the face of the white-haired, dark-suited employment

manager, because there really was nothing to be said.

Over a cup of coffee at a lunch counter, he examined

the other two ads which he had selected for investi

I87 No 2 No 2

gation. One was for a draftsman in a small, growing

engineering office and the other for a helper in a bakery,

the name of which he recognized as being among the

larger ones. He figured that the bakery would give

him a form to fill out just as the hotel had. As for the

engineering office, if it wasn’t a form, there would

be questions. No matter how much or how long he

thought about it, it seemed hopeless. Still, he could

not stop. He had to keep searching until he found

work. Somewhere, there was someone who would hire

ºfflºº.Ömeone was, it was essential that he find him.

Before further thought could reduce his determination

to bitterness or despair or cowardice or utter dis

couragement, he boarded a trolley for fear that, if

he took the time to walk back to the car, he would

find a reason to postpone his efforts. The trolley, a

trackless affair which drew its motive power from

overhead wires, surged smoothly through the late

morning traffic with its handful of riders.

It was a short ride to the new, brick structure which

had recently been constructed in an area, once resi

dential, but now giving way to the demands of a

growing city. Low, flat, modern clinics and store build

ings intermingled with rambling, ugly apartment

houses of wood and dirt-ridden brick.

Striding up a path which curved between newly

installed landscaping, Ichiro entered the offices of

Carrick and Sons. A middle-aged woman was beating

furiously upon a typewriter.

NO & NO & I88

He waited until she finished the page and flipped

it out expertly. “Mam, I . . .”

“Yes?” She looked up, meanwhile working a new

sheet into the machine.

“I’m looking for a job. The one in the paper. I

came about the ad.”

“Oh, of course.” Making final adjustments, she

typed a couple of lines before she rose and peeked into

an inner office. “Mr. Carrick seems to be out just now.

He'll be back shortly. Sit down.” That said, she

resumed her typing.

He spotted some magazines on a table and started

to leaf through a not-too-old issue of Look. He saw

the pictures and read the words and turned the pages

methodically without digesting any of it.

A muffled pounding resounded distantly through

the building and he glanced at the woman, who met

his gaze and smiled sheepishly. He returned to the

flipping of the pages, wondering why she had smiled

in that funny way, and she bent her head over the

typewriter as soon as the pounding stopped and went

back to work.

When the pounding noise came again, she muttered

impatiently under her breath and went out of the

room.

She was gone several minutes, long enough for him

to get through the magazine. He was hunting through

the pile of magazines in search of another when she

stuck her head into the room and beckoned him to

follow.

There was a big office beyond the door with a pile

I89 No 2 No. 3

of rolled-up blueprints on a corner table and big

photographs of buildings on the walls. They went

through that and farther into the back, past a small

kitchen and a utility room and, finally, came to stop

by a stairway leading down into the basement.

“I told Mr. Carrick you were here. He’s down

there,” the woman said, slightly exasperated.

As he started down, the same pounding began, only

it was clearer now and he thought it sounded like a

hammer being struck against a metal object of some

kind. The object turned out to be what looked like

a small hand-tractor with a dozer blade in front, and

a small man with unkempt gray hair was whacking

away at it with a claw hammer.

“Mr. Carrick?” It was no use. There was too much

noise, so he waited until the man threw the hammer

down in disgust and straightened up with a groan.

“Cockeyed,” the man said, rubbing both his hands

vigorously over the top of his buttocks. “I guess I’ll

have to take her apart and do it over right.” He smiled

graciously. “Doesn’t pay to be impatient, but seems

I’ll never learn. That there blade isn’t quite level

and I thought I could force her. I learned. Yup, I

sure did. How does she look to you?”

“What is it?”

Mr. Carrick laughed, naturally and loudly, his

small, round stomach shaking convulsively. “I’m

Carrick and you’re . . . .” He extended a soiled hand.

“Yamada, sir. Ichiro Yamada.”

“Know anything about snowplows?”

“No, sir.”

No 2 NO & I90

“Name's Yamada, is it?” The man pronounced the

name easily.

“Yes, sir.”

“Nihongo wakarimasu ka?”

“Not too well.”

“How did I say that?”

“You’re pretty good. You speak Japanese?”

“No. I used to have some very good Japanese friends.

They taught me a little. You know the Tanakas?”

He shook his head. “Probably not the ones you mean.

It’s a pretty common name.”

“They used to rent from me. Fine people. Best

tenants I ever had. Shame about the evacuation. You

too, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The Tanakas didn’t come back. Settled out East

someplace. Well, can’t say as I blame them. What

brought you back?”

“Folks came back.”

“Of course. Portland’s changed, hasn’t it?”

“I’m from Seattle.”

“That so?” He leaned over the snowplow and

tinkered with the bolts holding the blade in place.

Thinking that spring was not far away, Ichiro

ventured to ask: “Does it snow that much down here?”

“How much is that?”

“Enough for a plow.”

“No, it doesn’t. I just felt I wanted to make one.”

“Oh.”

Adjusting a crescent wrench to fit the bolts, he

grunted them loose and kicked the blade off. “Let’s

I91 No 2 No 2

have some coffee.” He rinsed off his hands at the sink

and led the way up the stairs and to the kitchen,

where he added water to an old pot of coffee and turned

on the burner.

“The Tanakas were fine people,” he said, sitting

down on a stool. In spite of his protruding belly and

gray hair, he seemed a strong and energetic man.

As he talked, his face had a way of displaying great

feeling and exuberance. “The government made a

big mistake when they shoved you people around.

There was no reason for it. A big black mark in the

annals of American history. I mean that. I’ve always

been a big-mouthed, loud-talking, back-slapping

American but, when that happened, I lost a little of

my wind. I don’t feel as proud as I used to, but, if

the mistake has been made, maybe we’ve learned

something from it. Let’s hope so. We can still be the

best damn nation in the world. I’m sorry things worked

out the way they did.”

It was an apology, a sincere apology from a man

who had money and position and respectability,

made to the Japanese who had been wronged. But it

was not an apology to Ichiro and he did not know

how to answer this man who might have been a

friend and employer, a man who made a snowplow

in a place where one had no need for a snowplow

because he simply wanted one.

Mr. Carrick set cups on the table and poured the

coffee, which was hot but weak. “When do you want

to start?” he asked.

The question caught him unprepared. Was that

NO 2 NO 2 I92

all there was to it? Were there to be no questions?

No inquiry about qualifications or salary or experience?

He fumbled with his cup and spilled some coffee on

the table.

“It pays two-sixty a month. Three hundred after

a year.”

“I’ve had two years of college engineering,” he said,

trying frantically to adjust himself to the unexpected

turn of events.

“Of course. The ad was clear enough. You wouldn’t

have followed it up unless you thought you could

qualify and, if you did, we’ll soon find out. Don’t

worry. You'll work out. I got a feeling.” He pursed

his lips gingerly and sipped his coffee.

All he had to say was “I’ll take it,” and the matter

would be settled. It was a stroke of good fortune such

as he would never have expected. The pay was good,

the employer was surely not to be equaled, and the

work would be exactly what he wanted.

He looked at Mr. Carrick and said: “I’d like to

think about it.”

Was it disbelief or surprise that clouded the face of

the man who, in his heartfelt desire to atone for the

error of a big country whic een quite big Tenough, atter-of-factly-sai e mont

and three hundred after a year when two hundred a

month was what he had in mind when he composed

the ad since a lot of draftsmen were getting less but

because the one who came for the job was a Japanese

and it made a difference to him? “Certainly, Ichiro.

Take all the time you need.”

I93 No 2 NO 2

And when he said that, Ichiro knew that the job did

not belong to him, but to another Japanese who was

equally as American as this man who was attempting

in a small way to rectify the wrong he felt to be his

own because he was a part of the country which,

somehow, had erred in a moment of panic.

“I’m not a veteran,” he said.

Mr. Carrick creased his brow, not understanding

what he meant.

“Thanks for the coffee. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

He pushed himself back off the stool.

“Wait.” His face thoughtfully grave, Mr. Carrick

absently drew a clean handkerchief from his trousers

pocket and ran it over the coffee which Ichiro had

spilled. He straightened up quickly, saying simul

taneously: “It’s something I’ve said. God knows I

wouldn’t intentionally do anything to hurt you or

anyone. I’m sorry. Can we try again, please?”

“You’ve no apology to make, sir. You’ve been very

good. I want the job. The pay is tops. I might say

I need the job, but it’s not for me. You see, I’m not a

veteran.”

“Hell, son. What’s that got to do with it? Did I ask

you? Why do you keep saying that?”

How was he to explain? Surely he couldn’t leave

now without some sort of explanation. The man had

it coming to him if anyone ever did. He was, above

all, an honest and sincere man and he deserved an

honest reply.

“Mr. Carrick, I’m not a veteran because I spent

two years in jail for refusing the draft.”

Not No.: 194

The man did not react with surprise or anger or

incredulity. His shoulders sagged a bit and he suddenly

seemed a very old man whose life’s dream had been

to own a snowplow and, when he had finally secured

one, it was out of kilter. “I am sorry, Ichiro,” he said,

“sorry for you and for the causes behind the reasons

which made you do what you did. It wasn't your fault,

really. You know that, don’t you?”

“I don’t know, sir. I just don’t know. I just know

I did it.”

“You mustn't blame yourself.”

“I haven’t much choice. Sometimes I think my

mother is to blame. Sometimes I think it’s bigger than

her, more than her refusal to understand that I’m

not like her. It didn’t make sense. Not at all. First

they jerked us off the Coast and put us in camps to

prove to us that we weren’t American enough to be

trusted. Then they wanted to draft us into the army.

I was bitter—mad and bitter. Still, a lot of them went

in, and I didn’t. You figure it out. Thanks again, sir.”

He was in the front room and almost past the woman

when Mr. Carrick caught up with him.

“Miss Henry,” he said to the woman at the type

writer, and there was something about his manner

that was calm and reassuring, “this is Mr. Yamada.

He's considering the drafting job.”

She nodded, smiling pleasantly. “You’ll like it here,”

she said. “It’s crazy, but you’ll like it.”

He walked with Ichiro to the door and drew it open.

“Let me know when you decide.”

I95 No 2 NO 2

They shook hands and Ichiro took the bus back to

the hotel. He had every reason to be enormously

elated and, yet, his thoughts were solemn to the point

of brooding. Then, as he thought about Mr. Carrick

and their conversation time and time again, its meaning

for him evolved into a singularly comforting thought.

There was someone who cared. Surely there were other

too who understood the suffering of the small and the

weak and, yes, even the seemingly treasonous, and

offered a way back into the great compassionate stream

of life that is America. Under the hard, tough cloak

of the struggle for existence in which money and

enormous white refrigerators and shining, massive,

brutally-fast cars and fine, expensive clothing had

ostensibly overwhelmed the qualities of men that were

good and gentle and just, there still beat a heart of

kindness and patience and forgiveness. And in this

moment when he thought of Mr. Carrick, the engineer

with a yen for a snowplow that would probably never

get used, and of what he had said, and, still more,

of what he offered to do, he glimpsed the real nature

of the country against which he had almost fully

turned his back, and saw that its mistake was no less

unforgivable than his own.

He blew a stream of smoke into the shaft of sunlight

that slanted through the window and watched it lazily

curl upward along the brightened path. Stepping to

the window, he looked down for a moment upon a

parking lot with its multi-colored rows of automobile

NO Y NO & I96

*/

º,

hoods and tops. And beyond was the city, streets and

buildings and vehicles and people for as far as the

eye could reach.

Then he drew the shade and found himself alone in

the darkness, feeling very tired and sleepy because he

had been a long time without rest. It was all he could

do to remove his clothes before he fell on the bed and

let himself succumb to the weariness which was making

him dizzy and clumsy.

He slept soundly, hardly stirring until he awoke in

the quiet which was the quiet of the night, disturbed

only by the infrequent hum of an automobile in the

streets below. As the drowsiness faded reluctantly, he

waited for the sense of calm elation which he rather

expected. It did not come. He found that his thoughts

were of his family. They were not to be ignored, to

be cast out of mind and life and rendered eternally

nothing. It was well that Kenji wished him to take

the Oldsmobile back to Seattle. A man does not start

totally anew because he is already old by virtue of

having lived and laughed and cried for twenty or

thirty or fifty years and there is no way to destroy

them without destroying life itself. That he under

stood. He also understood that the past had been shared

with a mother and faº;; he too was a part of them and they a part of him and

one did not say this is as far as we go together, Fam

stepping out of your lives, without rendering himself

only part of a man. [If he was to find his way back

to that point of wholeness and belonging, he must do

so in the place where he had begun to lose it. Mr.

^ º 2

I97 NO Y NO Y

Carrick had shown him that there was a chance and,

for that, he would be ever grateful.

Crawling out of the bed, he switched on the light

and started to search through the drawers of the

dresser. In the third one he found a Gideon Bible, a

drinking glass in a cellophane bag, and two picture

postcards. Lacking a desk, he stood at the dresser

and penned a few lines to Mr. Carrick informing him

that, grateful as he was, he found it necessary to turn

down the job. He paused with pen in hand, wanting

to add words which would adequately express the

warmth and depth of gratitude he felt. What could

he say to this man whom he had met but once and

probably would never see again?wº º the bigness of his feelings to match the

igness of the heart of this American who, in the

manner of his living, was continually nursing and

worrying the infant America into the greatness of its

inheritance? Knowing, finally, that º unsaid ;ould be understood, he merely affixed his si o the

postcard and dressed so that he could go out to mail

it and get something to eat.

Outside, he walked along the almost deserted streets.

It was only a little after ten o’clock but there were few

pedestrians and traffic was extremely light. He came to

a corner with a mailbox and paused to drop the

card. Lifting his eyes upward along the lamppost, he

saw that he was on Burnside Street. In a small way,

Burnside was to Portland what Jackson Street was to

Seattle or, at least, he remembered that it used to be

so before the war when the Japanese did little traveling

No 2 No 2 I98

and Portland seemed a long way off instead of just

two hundred miles and the fellows who had been to

Portland used to rave about the waitresses they had

in the café on Burnside. He could almost hear them:

“Burnside Café. Remember that. Boy, what sweet

babes! Nothing like them in Seattle. Sharp. Sharp.

Sharp.”

He ambled up the walk past a tavern, a drugstore,

a café, a vacant store space, a cigar stand, a laundro

mat, a secondhand store, another tavern, and there

it was. Just as they said it would be, Burnside Café

in huge, shameless letters plastered across two big

windows with the door in between.

A young fellow in a white apron with one leg

propped up on the inside ledge smoked his cigarette

and looked out on the world, waiting for business to

walk in. When he saw Ichiro, his eyes widened per

ceptibly. He followed the stranger through the door

and said familiarly: “Hi.”

Ichiro nodded and walked to the rear end of the

counter where a middle-aged woman was standing on

a milk box and pouring hot water into the top of a

large coffee urn.

The young fellow pursued him from the other side

of the counter and greeted him with a too-friendly

grin: “Hungry, I bet.” He plucked a menu wedged

between the napkin holder and sugar dispenser and

held it forth.

“Ham and eggs. Coffee now,” he said, ignoring the

IIlenu.

“Turn the eggs over?”

199 No: No:

“No.”

“Ma, ham and eggs sunny side up.” He got the

coffee himself and set it in front of Ichiro. He didn’t

go away.

#. thought Ichiro to himself with disgust. A Jap can spot another Jap a mile away. Pouring the

sugar, he solemnly regarded the still-grinning face of

the waiter and saw the clean white shirt with the

collar open and the bronze discharge pin obtrusively

.*.*. the ribbons might have been if the fellow had been wearing a uniform.

“You’re Japanese, huh? Where you from?”

He could have said yes and they would have been

friends. The Chinese were like that too, only more

so. He had heard how a Chinese from China by the

name of Eng could go to Jacksonville, Florida, or any

other place, and look up another Chinese family by

the same name of Eng and be taken in like one of the

family with no questions asked. There was nothing

wrong with it. On the contrary, it was a fine thing

in some ways. Still, how much finer i -

Smith would do the same for Eng and Sato would

do the same for Wotynski and Laverghetti would

do likewise for whoever happened by, Eng for Eng,

Jap for Jap, Pole for Pole, and like for like meant

º:wars and misery, and that wasn’t what Mr. Carrick

- would want at alſ, and he was on the right track.

-“I’ve got two Purple Hearts and five Battle Stars,”

Ichiro said. “What does that make me?”

The young Japanese with the clean white shirt

No! No 1 200

and the ruptured duck to prove he wasn't Japanese

flinched, then flushed and stammered: “Yeah—you

know what I meant—that is, I didn’t mean what

you think. Hell, I’m a vet, too. . . .”

“I’m glad you told me.”

“Jeezuz, all I said was are you Japanese. Is that

wrong?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, of course not.”

“Why'd you ask?”

“Just to be asking. Make conversation and so on.

You know.”

“I don’t. My name happens to be Wong. I’m

Chinese.”

Frustrated and panicky, the waiter leaned forward

ence to me what you are. I like Chinese.”

“Any reason why you shouldn’t?”

“I didn’t say that. I didn’t mean that. I was just

trying to . . .” He did a harried right face and fled

back toward the window grumbling: “Crissake, cris

sake . . .”

A moment later, the woman emerged from the

kitchen with his plate and inquired in Japanese if he

would like some toast and jam. She did it very natural

ly, seeing that he was obviously Japanese and graceful

ly using the tongue which came more easily to her

lips.

He said that would be fine and noticed that the son

was glaring out of the window at a world which

20I NO Y NO &

probably seemed less friendly and more complicated

than it had been a few minutes previously. The woman

brought the toast and jam and left him alone, and he

cleaned the plate swiftly. He would have liked an

other cup of coffee but the greater need was to get

out and away from the place and the young Japanese

who had to wear a discharge button on his shirt to

prove to everyone who came in that he was a top

flight American. Having the proper change in his

pocket, he laid it and the slip on the little rubber mat

by the cash register and hurried out without seeing

the relief-mixed-with-shame look on the waiter’s face.

From the café he walked the few steps to the tavern

next door and ordered a double shot of whisky with

a beer chaser. He downed both, standing up, by the

time the bartender came back with his change, and

then he was out on the street once more. On top of

the ham and eggs and toast with jam, the liquor didn’t

hit him hard, but he felt woozy by the time he got

back to the hotel. He had to wait in the elevator for

a while because the old fellow who ran it also watched

the desk and was presently on the telephone.

On the way up, the old man regarded his slightly

flushed face and smiled knowingly. “Want a girl?”

he asked.

“I want six,” he said, hating the man.

“All at one time?” the old man questioned un

believingly.

“The sixth floor, pop.” The hotness in his face was

hotter still with the anger inside of him.

No 2 No 2 202

“Sure,” he said, bringing the elevator to an abrupt

halt, “that’s good. I thought you meant you wanted

six of them. That is good.”

The old man was chuckling as Ichiro stepped out

of the elevator and headed toward his room.

“Filthy-minded old bastard,” he muttered viciously

under his breath. No wonder the world’s such a rotten

place, rotten and filthy and cheap and smelly. Where

is that place they talk of and paint nice pictures of and

describe in all the homey magazines? Where is that

place with the clean, white cottages surrounding the

new, red-brick church with the clean, white steeple,

where the families all have two children, one boy and

one girl, and a shiny new car in the garage and a dog

and a cat and life is like living in the land of the

happily-ever-after? Surely it must be around here

someplace, someplace in America. Or is it just that

it’s not for me? Maybe I dealt myself out, but what

about that young kid on Burnside who was in the

army and found out it wasn’t enough so that he has

to keep proving to everyone who comes in for a cup

of coffee that he was fighting for his country-like the

button on his shirt says he did because the army

didn’t do anything about his face to make him look

more American? And what about the poor niggers

on Jackson Street who can’t find anything better to

do than spit on the sidewalk and show me the way

to Tokyo? They’re on the outside looking in, just like

that kid and just like me and just like everybody else

I’ve ever seen or known. Even Mr. Carrick. y

)

º ºn 6 º' Sº - , ſº

"J

( º ºr

203 NO & NO &

isn’t he in? Why is he on the outside squandering his

goodness on outcasts like me? Maybe the answer is

that there is no in. Maybe thesº

*...*.*.*.*.*.*.*. someplace that doesn't exist, because they don’t know

that the outside could be the inside if only they would

stop all this pushing and shoving and screaming,

and they haven’t got enough sense to realize that.

That makes sense. I’ve got the answer all figured out,

simple and neat and sensible.

And then he thought about Kenji in the hospital

and of Emi in bed with a stranger who reminded her

of her husband and of his mother waiting for the ship

from Japan, and there was no more answer. If he were

in the tavern, he would drink another double with

a beer for a chaser and another and still another but

he wasn’t in the tavern because he didn’t have the

courage to step out of his room and be seen by people

who would know him for what he was. There was

nothing for him to do but roll over and try to sleep.

Somewhere, sometime, he had even forgotten how

to cry.

In the morning he checked out of the hotel and

drove to the hospital. Visiting hours were plainly

indicated on a sign at the entrance as being in the

afternoons and evenings. Feeling he had nothing to

lose by trying, he walked in and stood by the registra

tion desk until the girl working the switchboard got

a chance to help him.

Not No. 204

“What can I do for you?” she asked sweetly enough

and then, prodded into action by the buzzing of the

board, pulled and inserted a number of brass plugs

which were attached to extendible wire cords. Tiny

lights bristled actively as if to give evidence to the

urgency of the calls being carried by the board.

“I’ve got a friend here. I’d like to find out what room

he’s in.”

“Sure. His name?”

“Kanno.”

“Kanno what?”

“Kenji. Kanno is the last name.”

“How do you spell it?” She consulted the K’s on

the cardex.

“K-A-N-”

“Never mind. I’ve got it.” Looking up, she con

tinued: “He’s in four-ten but you’ll have to come

back this afternoon. Visiting hours are posted at the

entrance. Sorry.”

“I’m on my way out of town. I won’t be here this

afternoon.”

“Hospital rules, sir.”

“Sure,” he said, noticing the stairway off toward

the right, “I understand.”

The board buzzed busily and the operator turned

her attention to the plugs and cords once more.

Ichiro walked to the stairs and started up. Between

the second and third floors he encountered two nurses

coming down. When they saw him they cut short

their chattering and one of them seemed on the point

205 No 2 NO &

of questioning him. Quickening his pace, he rushed

past them purposefully and was relieved when he

heard them resume their talking.

Up on the fourth floor, no one bothered him as he

set out to locate Kenji’s room. Four-ten wasn’t far

from the stairway. A screen was placed inside the

doorway so that he couldn’t look directly in. He went

around it and saw the slight figure of his friend up

on the high bed with the handle of the crank poking

out at the foot.

“Ken,” he said in almost a whisper though he hadn’t

deliberately intended to speak so.

“Ichiro?” His head lay on the pillow with its top

toward the door and Ichiro noted with a vague sense

of alarm that his hair was beginning to thin.

He waited for Kenji to face him and was dis

appointed when he did not move. “How's it been

with you?”

“Fine. Sit down.” He kept looking toward the

window.

Ichiro walked past the bed, noticing where the sheet

fell over the stump beneath. It seemed to be frighten

ingly close to the torso. His own legs felt stiff and

awkward as he approached the chair and settled into

it.

Kenji was looking at him, a smile, weak yet warm,

on his mouth.

“How's it going?” he asked, and he hardly heard

his own voice, for Kenji had aged a lifetime during

the two days they had been apart. Exactly what it

No 2 NO & 206

was he couldn’t say, but it was all there, the fear,

the pain, the madness, and the exhaustion of mind

and body.

“About as I expected, Ichiro. I should have been

a doctor.”

Kenji had said he was going to die.

“You could be wrong. Have they said so?”

“Not in so many words, but they know it and I

know it and they know that I do.”

“Why don’t they do something?”

“Nothing to be done.”

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said, not knowing why

except that it suddenly seemed important to explain.

“They told me to come back this afternoon but I

came up anyway. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe

you’re supposed to rest.”

“Hell with them,” said Kenji. “You’re here, stay.”

It was quiet in the hospital. He’d heard someplace

a long time ago that visitors were not allowed in the

morning in hospitals because that’s when all the

cleaning and changing of beds and mopping of floors

were done. There wasn’t a sound to be heard. “Quiet

here,” he said.

“Good for thinking,” said Kenji.

“Sure, I guess it is.” He wished Kenji would move,

roll his head a little or wiggle his arm, but he lay

there just as he was.

“Go back to Seattle.”

“What?”

“Go back. Later on you might want to come to

Portland to stay, but go back for now. It’ll turn out

207 No 3 NO &

for the best in the long run. The kind of trouble you've

got, you can’t run from it. Stick it through. Let them

call you names. They don’t mean it. What I mean

is, they don’t know what they’re doing. The way I

see it, they pick on you because they're yulnerable.

They think just because they went and packed a rifle

they’re different but they aren’t and they know it.

tºA They're still Japs. You weren’t here when they first . Sº started to move back to the Coast. There was a great

\ deal of opposition—name-calling, busted windows,

dirty words painted on houses. People haven’t changed

a helluva lot. The guys who make it tough on you

probably do so out of a misbegotten idea that maybe

you’re to blame because the good that they thought

they were doing by getting killed and shot up doesn’t

amount to a pot of beans. They just need a little time

to get cut down to their own size. Then they’ll be the

same as you, a bunch of Japs.”

He paused for a long time, just looking and smiling

at Ichiro, his face wan and tired. “There were a lot

of them pouring into Seattle about the time I got back

there. It made me sick. I’d heard about some of

them scattering out all over the country. I read about

a girl who's doing pretty good in the fashion business

in New York and a guy that's principal of a school

in Arkansas, and a lot of others in different places

making out pretty good. I got to thinking that the

Japs were wising up, that they had learned that living

in big bunches and talking Jap and feeling Jap and

doing Jap was just inviting trouble. But my dad came

back. There was really no reason why he should have.

NO Y NO & 208

I asked him about it once and he gave me some kind

of an answer. Whatever it was, a lot of others did the

same thing. I hear there’s almost as many in Seattle

now as there were before the war. It’s a shame, a

dirty, rotten shame. Pretty soon it’ll be just like it

was before the war. A bunch of Japs with a fence

around them, not the kind you can see, but it’ll hurt

them just as much. They bitched and hollered when

the government put them in camps and put real fences

2-around them, but now they’re doing the same damn

thing to the - ey screamed because the

government said they werejãps and, when they finally

got out, they couldn’t wait to rush together and prove

that they were.”-T -

“They’re not alone, Ken. The Jews, the Italians,

the Poles, the Armenians, they’ve all got their com

munities.”

“Sure, but that doesn’t make it right. It’s wrong. I

don’t blame the old ones so much. They don’t know

any better. They don’t want any better. It's me I’m

talking about and all the rest of the young ones who

know and want better.”

“You just got through telling me to go back to

Seattle.”

“I still say it. Go back and stay there until they

have enough sense to leave you alone. Then get out.

It may take a year or two or even five, but the time

will come when they’ll be feeling too sorry for them

selves to pick on you. After that, head out. Go some

place where there isn’t another Jap within a thousand

miles. Marry a white girl or a Negro or an Italian or

209 NO & NO &

even a Chinese. Anything but a Japanese. After a few

generations of that, you’ve got the thing beat. Am

I making sense?”

“It’s a fine dream, but you're not the first.”

“No,” he uttered and it seemed as if he might cry,

“it’s just a dream, a big balloon. I wonder if there’s

"...º.I’m going to. That would make dying tough.”

Ichiro stood and, walking to his friend, placed his

hand on the little shoulder and held it firmly.

“I’m going to write to Ralph,” said Kenji.

“Ralph?”

“Emi’s husband. I’m going to write him about how

you and Emi are hitting it off.”

“Why? It’s not true.” He felt the heat of indignation

warm around his collar.

“No, it isn’t true, but what they’re doing to each

other is not right. They should be together or split

up. If I tell him about you and how you’re hot for

her, it might make him mad enough to come back.”

Understanding what Kenji meant, Ichiro worked up

a smile. “Seems like I’m not so useless after all.”

“Tell her I’ve been thinking about her.”

“Sure.”

“And I’m thinking about you. All the time.”

“Sure.”

“Have a drink for me. Drink to wherever it is I’m

headed, and don’t let there be any Japs or Chinks

or Jews or Poles or Niggers or Frenchies, but only

people. I think about that too. I think about that

most of all. You know why?”

No 2 NO & 210

He shook his head and Kenji seemed to know he

would even though he was still staring out the window.

“He was up on the roof of the barn and I shot him,

killed him. He wasn’t the only German I killed, but

I remember him. I see him rolling down the roof.

I see him all the time now and that’s why I want this

other place to have only people because if I’m still

a Jap there and this guy’s still a German, I’ll have

to shoot him again and I don’t want to have to do

that. Then maybe there is no someplace else. Maybe

dying is it. The finish. The end. Nothing. I’d like

that too. Better an absolute nothing than half a

meaning. The living have it tough. It’s like a coat

rack without pegs, only you think there are. Hang it

up, drop, pick it up, hang it again, drop again. . . .

Tell my dad I’ll miss him like mad.”

“I will.”

“Crazy talk?”

“No, it makes a lot of sense.”

“Goodbye, Ichiro.”

His hand slipped off his friend’s shoulder and

brushed along the white sheet and dropped to his

side. The things he wanted to say would not be said.

He said “Bye” and no sound came out because the

word got caught far down inside his throat and he

felt his mouth open and shut against the empty

silence. At the door he turned and looked back and,

as Kenji had still not moved, he saw again the spot

on the head where the hair was thinning out so that

the sickly white of the scalp filtered between the

strands of black. A few more years and he’ll be bald,

2II NO Y NO &

he thought, and then he started to smile inwardly

because there wouldn’t be a few more years and as

quickly the smile vanished because the towering,

choking grief was suddenly upon him.

It was almost seven hours later when Ichiro, nearing

the outskirts of Seattle, turned off the highway and

drove to Emi’s house.

He pressed the doorbell and waited and pressed it

again. When no one appeared, he pounded on the

door. Thinking, hoping that she must be nearby, he

walked around to the back. With a sense of relief,

he noted that the shed which served as a garage housed

a pre-war Ford that looked fairly new. It probably

meant that she hadn’t driven to town. He tried the

back door without any luck and made his way around

to the front once more.

Tired and hungry, he sat on the step and lit a

cigarette. It was then that he saw her, walking toward

the house from out in the fields about where the man

had been stooped over his labors a few mornings previ

ously. Looking carefully, he saw that he was still there,

still stooped over, still working.

Emi covered the ground with long, sure strides.

Occasionally she broke into a run, picking her way

agilely over the loose dirt and leaping over mounds

and the carefully tended rows of vegetables. He stood

and waved and got no response, so he waited until

she was closer before he raised his arm again. Still

she did not wave back. Seeming deliberately to avoid

looking at him, she approached the gate. Once there,

NO Y NO & 212

she jerked her head up, her face alive and expectantly

tenSe.

“Hello, Emi.”

“I saw the Oldsmobile. I thought . . .” She didn’t

hide her disappointment.

He felt embarrassed and unwanted. “I’m sorry,”

he said quietly.

She grasped the gate, which he had left open, and

slammed it fiercely. With chin lowered, she pouted,

her face swollen and defiant. Then she came up the

walk, moving her legs reluctantly, and dropped on

the step.

Unnerved by her reaction, Ichiro fidgeted uneasily,

thinking of something to say. At length, he too sat

down beside her and remained silent. Without looking

at her, he could sense that she was struggling to keep

the tears from starting. There was a streak of brown

dirt clinging across the toe of her shoe and he restrained

the urge to brush it off.

“It’s just that I wanted so much for him to come

back.” She started speaking, almost in a whisper. “It

somehow seemed more important for him to come back

this time than the other times he went down there.

He’s not coming back, is he?”

“No, I think not. He told me to tell you that he's

thinking about you.”

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out.

“Sorry?”

“I’m sorry I made you feel bad just now.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did and I’m sorry.”

213 NO Y NO &

“Sure.”

“I’ll make you something to eat,” she said and,

before he could refuse, rose and went into the house.

In the kitchen, he watched as she moved from the

refrigerator to the sink to the stove, fussing longer

than necessary with each little thing that had to be

done.

He got the dishes and utensils from the cupboard

and set them on the table. “Were you in love with

him?” he asked.

She turned and, apparently neither startled nor

hurt, softly smiled. “In a way. Not the way I love

Ralph. Not the way I might love you, but I loved him

—no, he's not gone yet—I love him too much but

not enough.”

“Any other time I might not understand the way

you put that, but I do.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m glad if you do, but it really

doesn’t matter. Love is not something you save and

hoard. You're born with it and you spend it when

you have to and there’s always more because you’re

a woman and there’s always suffering and pain and

gentleness and sadness to make it grow.”

“He said he was thinking about you.”

“You already said that. Besides, it doesn’t need to

be said.” She put the meat and potatoes in his plate

and urged him to eat. For herself she poured a cup

of coffee and stirred it absent-mindedly without adding

cream or sugar.

Hungry as he had thought himself to be, he found

himself chewing lengthily on each little mouthful.

No 2 No 2 214

“And you?”

He looked at her, not quite understanding the

intention of her words.

“What will you do now?”

“I haven’t decided,” he said honestly. “Strangely

enough, I had a wonderful job offer in Portland, but

I turned it down.”

“Tell me about it.”

He did so, dwelling at great length on his admiration

for Mr. Carrick and the reasons for his final decision

to refuse the job. Somehow, he had expected her to

be impatient with what he had done, but when he

finished she merely said: “It’s good.”

“That I turned down the job?”

“No, it’s good that you found out things aren’t as

hopeless as you thought.”

“Just like you said.”

“I did say that, didn't I?” She looked pleased. “This

Mr. Carrick you speak of sounds like the kind of

American that Americans always profess themselves

to be.”

“One in a million,” he added.

“Less than that,” she said quickly. “If a lot more

people were like him, there wouldn’t have been an

evacuation.”

“No, and one might even go farther and say there

might not have been a war.”

“And no problems for you and me and everybody

else.”

“Nothing for God to do either,” he said, without

215 No: No:

knowing why and, as soon as he had, he knew that

they had just been talking. What it amounted to was

that there was a Mr. Carrick in Portland, which did

not necessarily mean that there were others like him.

The world was pretty much the same except, perhaps,

that Emi and he were both sadder.

“Mr. Maeno will give you work, if you wish. I was

speaking to him about you just before you came.”

Rising, he went to the stove to get the coffeepot and

did not answer until he sat down again. “That would

be nice, but I can’t. Thanks, anyway.”

“Why?”

“It won’t do any good. It’ll be like hiding. He's

Japanese. Probably admires me for what I did, I

suppose. Maybe it doesn’t make any difference to him

what I’ve done, but it does to me.”

“What will you do then?”

“Find a girl that's not Japanese that'll marry me.”

Seeing the incredulous look in her face, he rapidly

explained what Kenji had said to him.

“He didn’t really mean it,” she replied. “He only

meant that things ought to be that way, but I think

he knew he was only dreaming.”

“He did. It’s probably what makes him so unhappy

and kind of brooding underneath.”

“Is he really going to die?” She looked at him

pleadingly, as if beseeching him to say that it was

not true.

All he could do was nod his head.

Emi pushed her cup away abruptly, splashing some

No 2 NO & 2I6

of the coffee onto the table. Then she cupped her face

with her hands and began to sob, scarcely making a

sound.

“I have to go now,” he said. “I may not come to

see you again and, then, I might. I like you a lot

already and, in time, I’ll surely love you very deeply.

That mustn't happen because Ralph will probably

come back.”

“He won’t,” she cried, without taking her hands

away.

“I think he will. Ken said he was writing to Ralph.

He’s got something in mind that'll jolt him hard

enough to make him see what he's doing. He'll come

back. Soon.”

He stood beside her a moment, wanting to comfort

her. Slowly, he raised his arms, only to let them drop

without touching her. Quickly he brushed his lips

against her head and ran out of the house.

No Y NO Y NO Y NO 2 {} NO Y NO Y NO Y NO &

ICHIRO's FATHER CRADLED the brown paper

bag preciously in the soft crook of his arm and, with

the other hand, pressed it firmly against his breast.

In his hurry to get to the liquor store before it closed

at eight o’clock, he had left home without a coat or

hat. Now, his legs moved quickly, sweeping him along

the walk, which he felt hazily underneath him. It

was still March and cool enough for a topcoat. He

shivered a little and felt fuzzy all over because it had

been a while since the last drink and that’s how he

felt when the effect of the liquor was beginning to

wear off. It scared him to think that he might be

sobering up. He ran, squeezing the bag tighter when

its contents began to jiggle. The bag would have

made a snug fit for four bottles, but he had only bought

three and that meant they were fairly loose.

“Next time I’ll be sure to buy four,” he muttered

to himself. “Ya, four is best; a whole case, better.

Sonagabitch, I’m thirsty. Sonagabitch, cold too.

Plenty cold.”

A block from the store he attempted to leap over

the curbing and didn’t quite make it. Clutching the

Not No. 218

bag desperately, he managed to twist himself suſ

ficiently in mid-air so that he hit the sidewalk with

his shoulder. The impact cut his breath off momentarily

and, as he lay gasping for air, he saw several people

running toward him.

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

219 No 2 No 2

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, fussin -

them in the boxes, and then the W - -

Tover again until hours after Ichi 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

NO Y NO & 220

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 re

membered 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

22I NO Y NO &

and proceeded to cram the cases full of whatever came

into her grasping hands. How long this time, he

thought and, gently rubbing the ache in his shoulder

with unsteady hand, 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

NO Y NO 2 222

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 dis

colored 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

223 No 3 No 2

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 you 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

No 2 NO & 224

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 th that I am. Holding his breath Sö as

not to taste the cheap liquor, he gulped greedily. He

225 No 2 No 2

endeavored stubbornly, his stomach now extended to

the point of bursting and his meuth jerking in labored

gasps as his whole being clawed for air. Then he be

`came 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—te.

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 dis

torting 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

NO Y NO & 226

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.”

227 No 2 No 2

“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

35

e

No Y NO & 228

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 excel

lent 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 kind

ness,” 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.”

229 NO & NO &

“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 of 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.’”

NO Y NO & 230

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 never have

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.”

They did not speak again until the car was beside

231 NO Y NO 2

the grocery store. It was Ken’s father who said: “Thank

you for all you’ve done for us.”

“I did nothing. Ken did much for me. I can’t tell

you how sorry I am.”

“The family must know,” said the man. “I must

go home and tell them that Ken is dead. It will be

very difficult.”

“Yes.”

“Goodbye, Ichiro.”

He waved in return and watched until the car

turned out of sight at the end of the block.

2

Finding the door unlocked, he entered the store and

stood for a moment in the dark. He wondered at the

complete stillness and frowned slightly at the stench

of whisky. Slowly, he started toward the living quarters

of the building. His foot struck a bottle and, when

he peered over the floor to locate it, he noticed the

several winding rivulets of water working their way

across the boards and making shallow pools in the

low spots. Perplexed, he traced the water into the

kitchen and there, underneath the bathroom door,

the flow was wide and strong and steady. His hand

already reaching for the doorknob, he suddenly felt

the necessity of looking into the bedroom. He did so,

seeing the pile of suitcases stacked neatly on his

parents’ bed but no sign of his mother or father.

Frightened now, sensing the tragedy inherent in

the stillness, he rushed to the bathroom door and

found it locked. Angrily, he drove his shoulder re

No 2 NO 2 232

peatedly against the door, feeling it give grudgingly

a tiny bit each time until the final assault threw him

into the bathroom.

She was half out of the tub and half in, her hair

of dirty gray and white floating up to the surface of

the water like a tangled mass of seaweed and obscuring

her neck and face. On one side, the hair had pulled

away and lodged against the overflow drain, damming

up the outlet and causing the flooding, just as her

mind, long shut off from reality, had sought and

found its erratic release.

Feeling only disgust and irritation, Ichiro forced

his hand into the tub to shut off the flow of water.

He looked at her again and felt a mild shiver working

up his back and into his shoulders. Momentarily

unnerved, he found himself thinking frantically that

she ought to be pulled out of the water. With move

ments made awkward by an odd sense of numbness,

he bent over to grasp her about the waist. At the touch

of her body against his hands, it occurred to him that

all he need do was to pull the plug. Calm now, he

reached for the chain and pulled it out and over the

side. He watched for a while as the water level fell,

drawing her tangled hair with it until the sickly white

of her neck stood revealed.

Dead, he thought to himself, all dead. For me, you

have been dead a long time, as long as I can remember.

You, who gave life to me and to Taro and tried to mak

us conform to a mold whichº: cause we never knew of it, were never alive to us in

the way that other sons and daughters know and feel

233 No 2 NO 2

and see their parents. But you made so many mistakes.

It was a mistake to have ever left Japan. It was a

mistake to leave Japan and to come to America and

to have two sons and it was a mistake to think that

you could keep us completely Japanese in a country

such as America. With me, you almost succeeded, or

so it seemed. Sometimes I think it would have been

better had you fully succeeded. You would have been

happy and so might I have known a sense of complete

ness. But the mistakes you made were numerous enough

and big enough so that they, in turn, made inevitable

my mistake. I have had much time to feel sorry for

myself. Suddenly I feel sorry for you. Not sorry that

you are dead, but sorry for the happiness you have

not known. So, now you are free. Go back quickly.

Go to the Japan that you so long remembered and

loved, and be happy. It is only right. If it is only after

you’ve gone that I am able to feel these things, it is

because that is the way things are. Too late I see your

unhappiness, which enables me to understand a little

and, perhaps, even to love you a little, but it could

not be otherwise. Had you lived another ten years

or even twenty, it would still have been too late. If

anything, my hatred for you would have grown. You

are dead and I feel a little peace and I want very much

for you to know the happiness that you tried so hard

to give to me. . . .

Stooping over, he lifted her easily and carried her

to the bedroom, where he laid her beside the pile of

suitcases. Lingering a while longer, he brushed the

damp hair away from her face and pushed it carefully

No 2 No? 234

behind her head. Then he made his way through

the kitchen and into the store behind the counter to

the telephone. He wasn’t quite sure whom he intended

to call, but he realized that there were people to be

informed. He thought of the Kumasakas and the

Ashidas and he recalled having heard mention of a

young Japanese whom he had known slightly at one

time and who now was a mortician, cashing in on the

old Japanese who were dropping off like flies. He tried

to think of the fellow’s name and could only vaguely

remember what the fellow looked like years ago in

a faded pair of wide-ribbed corduroy trousers that

stopped about three inches above ugly, thin ankles.

Then he thought of the coroner and decided that he

was the one to call. Having to look up the number,

he reached overhead and turned on the light. He

blinked his eyes at the sudden illumination and, as

he did so, sighted the whisky bottle on the floor over

against the vegetable stand, where he had kicked it.

Wondering why the bottle had been so carelessly

placed, he glanced about the store and saw the over

turned apple box and, alongside of it, his father's

stockinged feet. Hurrying out from behind the counter,

he examined the prostrate figure on the floor.

“Pal” he shouted with alarm.

The father lay on his back with his face turned

sideways, and a thin streak of spittle oozed out of the

corner of his partly open mouth. He was asleep and

snoring softly.

Grabbing the old man by the shoulders, Ichiro

shook him vigorously. He stopped when he saw the

235 NO Y NO 2

eyes open lazily and regard him with drunken in

difference. The mouth curved into a silly grin and,

immediately, the eyes shut and the heavy breathing

was resumed.

Furiously, he shook him again, pulling as he did

so and bringing the body to a sitting position. The

eyes opened once more and the mouth emitted several

unintelligible grunts of protest.

“Pa, are you all right?” he shouted.

His father grinned and shook his head.

“Ma is dead. You hear me? Dead. Killed herself.

Ma killed herself.”

He continued to grin, giving no sign of under

standing. “Sick,” he mouthed thickly, “Mama sick.

Papa sick. Ichiro good boy. Everybody sick.”

“Goddamn you, Pa. I’m telling you Ma's dead.”

“Tell Taro he should come home. Mama needs

him.” With that, he shut his eyes and let himself

collapse.

Ichiro hung on for a moment and then let him

drop. Angrily, he returned to the telephone and leafed

through the book in search of the coroner's number.

No 2 No 2 No 2 No 2 !) No 2 No 2 No 2 No 1

THE FUNERAL was HELD several days later

at the Buddhist church up on the hill next to a play

ground. Ichiro sat uncomfortably in a small waiting

room and listened impatiently to the talking of the

men gathered around the table in the center of the

room. His father sat with the men and, while appearing

ill at ease in a navy-blue suit obviously new and pur

chased for the occasion, seemed nonetheless to be

enjoying himself. When he spoke, he did so eagerly,

striving to maintain an air of solemnity, but too often

unable to suppress a pleased grin.

“Ya, ya, a good wife,” he was saying, “but she is

gone and we talk no more about her. There is no

use for tears.”

His protestations went unheeded, for they were

gathered to attend a funeral and one was expected

to say the right things.

“How many years, Yamada-san?” questioned re

spectfully a tall, thin individual who, playing his part

to the full, had not smiled at all.

“Twenty-eight years, Noji-san,” replied the father.

“Such a long time. My wife and I have been to

237 No 2 NO &

gether thirty-two years, but twenty-eight years is also

a long time. How lonely you must be.” Mr. Noji

sniffed loudly and poked at his eye with a soiled

handkerchief.

“It is very sad indeed,” added Mr. Ashida, who sat

by the window in a crumpled, gray suit, “but she

has given you two fine boys. Two fine boys, indeed.”

Everyone turned and looked for a moment at

Ichiro, who sat alone on a sofa against the wall. He

squirmed uneasily and wondered if Taro would

acknowledge the telegram which he had sent the

day before after finally having hunted down the

information that he was taking basic training in a

California camp. When it finally came time to fill

out the yellow form, all he had been able to write

was: “Ma dead. Suicide.” Was there something more

he should have written?

“Almost time,” said Mr. Kumasaka softly. As a

close friend of the family, he was graciously handling

all the details of the funeral.

Several of the men took out pocket watches or re

garded their wrists and mumbled and nodded.

“Has everything been seen to?” queried a large

man whose name Ichiro could not remember.

“I believe so,” answered Mr. Kumasaka, whose

thoughtful look indicated that he was hurriedly running

a mental check.

“The telegrams. You have someone to read the

telegrams?” The large man, having suddenly recalled

that no mention had been made of telegrams, was

quite excited.

No 2 NO & 238

Mr. Kumasaka tried staring him down.

“Ah, I felt something had been overlooked. There

is so much to do, so many details.” Equal to the oc

casion, the large man rose to his feet and beckoned to

Mr. Ashida. “Please, Ashida-san, be so kind as to find

someone. One of the younger people who are here.

There is little time, hurry.”

Mr. Ashida started hastily out of the room, but

got no farther than Mr. Kumasaka, who had stretched

out a restraining arm. “There is no need, Ashida-san.

There are no telegrams.” He looked up at the large

man and repeated with a softness which was weighted

with disapproval: “There are no telegrams.”

Flustered, the man dropped back into his chair.

“Of course, of course. I was only trying to be of as

sistance.”

“It is just as well,” said the tall, thin one. “They are

always the same. Someone reads telegrams at all the

funerals and I do not understand them but I know

they are the same. You pick them from a card at the

telegraph office. I know because I have sent them.

They have cards for any occasion—funerals, weddings,

holidays. I have sent them myself. You go to the

telegraph office and say I want to send a funeral wire

and the woman gives you a card and there are maybe

ten different ones on it and you simply pick the one

you want. If it is a good friend, you pick the longest.

If not so good a friend, you pick one of the shorter ones.

Years ago, when my cousin's youngest boy was killed

by a train in Oregon, I went to the telegraph office

and—”

239 NO Y NO 2

“It is time, gentlemen, please.” The church at

tendant addressed them from the doorway.

The men filed out solemnly down the hall after the

attendant. The father and Ichiro walked a few steps

in the opposite direction and entered the auditorium

from a side door which led them directly to the first

row of seats, which had been reserved for them. As

they took their places and glumly regarded the open

casket only a few feet away, the priest sauntered across

the stage with its lavish, gold-bedecked shrine and

seated himself beside an urn-like gong. Without

acknowledging the people present, he struck the gong

several times and promptly proceeded to recite the

unintelligible mumbo-jumbo revered by all the old

ones present but understood by none.

The air was heavy with the smell of incense and,

behind him, Ichiro could hear the fervent muttering

of sacred words, the occasional sucking of breaths,

and a distant sob or two. Sitting up straight, he could

see the profile of her heavily-powdered, cold, stony

face protruding above the rim of the casket. It was

a nice casket, but he still couldn’t understand why

his father had insisted on the four-hundred-dollar light

blue one when the two-hundred-fifty-dollar gray one

would have sufficed. He hadn’t argued. The old man

seemed to know what had to be done.

He felt his father turn slightly toward him and he

met his gaze.

The round face oozed with insuppressible excite

ment. It had been that way ever since the news of the

mother's death had gotten around and the few close

No 2 NO 2 240

and many distant friends had crowded into the tiny

store to offer assistance and condolences and to sit

around and talk and drink tea and eat cookies and

cake. Many were strangers whom he had no recol

lection of ever having met and yet they had filled the

store during all hours of the day and night until this

very evening. In the midst of it all, his father had been flushed without touching a drop, dru e

the renewal of countless friendships and elated by the

endless offerings of sympathetic phrases. Women

were constantly hovering over the stove, cooking

meals for the bereaved and the mourning, scrubbing

the floor, and making the beds and keeping the children

quiet while the men ate and drank and smoked and

talked endlessly. It had been quite a show and this

was the final scene. If it all added up to something,

he had missed it. He wanted very much for all of it

to come to an end.

And, now, his father said excitedly to him: “Plenty

people, Ichiro. A good funeral for Mama.”

He felt the disgust creep into his face, but the father

had already turned away and was again sitting with

head slightly bowed and shoulders softly slouched so

that he must have presented a grief-filled figure to his

audience behind him.

Bringing his chant to a close with a series of well

timed blows on the gong, the priest rose and faced the

mourning flock. He bowed to the widower and his

son and ran a rosary-draped hand contemplatively

along the front of his black robe with the wide, gold

embroidered collar.

24I NO Y NO &

His shiny, bald head bulged at the temples, the

pink skin stretched tight as if ready to burst. Small,

black eyes peered out of a round, massive face that

might have been frightening had one unexpectedly

confronted it, but which radiated only understanding

and generosity to those who viewed it and knew that

it was the countenance of their good priest. His voice

was pitched too high and, attempting now to speak

as one mourner to another, had lost the resonance

and rhythm with which the holy chanting had been

done. What he did, virtually, was to announce the

funeral, giving the names of the deceased and the

immediate members of the family, and then, gazing

sympathetically upon the grieving father and son, he

offered them words of courage.

Ichiro squirmed, looking neither left nor right and

feeling the presence of his father beside him like a

towering mass of granite. After the priest, there were

others who spoke, embarrassed old gentlemen in ill

fitting Sunday suits who had been requested to speak

of the deceased. They were like grade-school orators

with badly prepared speeches, agonizing the audience

with futile gestures and excruciating pauses and

hopefully offering shaky grins, which merely height

ened the general discomfort. They said fine things

about the dead woman in fine language which none

ordinarily used but heard more frequently only be

cause the number of funerals seemed to be increasing.

And it was the large man who had caused the blunder

about the telegrams who gave, in a fairly shouting

voice, the biography of the deceased. As he shouted,

WO? No? 242 -

Ichiro listened and, it was as if he were hearing about

a stranger as the man spoke of the girl baby born in

the thirty-first year of the Meiji era to a peasant

family, of her growing and playing and going to school

and receiving honors for scholastic excellence and of

her becoming a pretty young thing who forsook a

teaching career to marry a bright, ambitious young

man of the same village. And as the large man trans

ported the young couple across the vast ocean to the

fortune awaiting them in America, Ichiro no longer

listened, for he was seeing the face of his dead mother

jutting out of the casket, and he could not believe

that she had ever been any of the things the man

was saying about her. Then he looked at his father,

who was hungrily devouring each meaningless word

of praise and was so filled by now with the importance

of himself that he held his head high and smiled pleas

antly for all to see. First, he felt sick and wanted to

get out of there. Then, he had an urge to laugh, so

funny the whole affair seemed, and he made himself

turn back to look at his mother's face to sober himself.

And he kept looking at her until the service was over

and the men from the mortuary in tails and striped

trousers came up to close the casket. They wheeled

it slowly down the center aisle to the long, black

Cadillac hearse waiting at the curb. He got into the

limousine behind the hearse with his father and waited

for the other people to get into their cars. A uniformed

patrolman waited alongside his motorcycle, impatient

to get the caravan to its destination and earn his

extra pay.

243 NO Y NO Y

“Pa, I feel sick,” he said.

“Ya, Ichiro, but pretty soon. Not much more,

now.” He was looking out of the window and ac

knowledging the bows of passing people.

“What's next? I’ve had enough.”

“Not much. We go to the funeral parlor. Then a

short service by the priest, put the casket in the oven,

and then to eat.”

“Eat?”

“Yes, it is custom. We feed the people who were

so kind as to come. It will be at the Japanese restaurant

since home is too small. Everything is arranged.”

“For crissake,” he moaned, and at that instant he

spied the face of Freddie hastening behind the limou

sine and cutting diagonally across the street to a

parked car. He watched, seeing the little coupe billow

forth a cloud of smoke, then begin to maneuver its

way out of a tight spot. He jumped out of the limou

sine and raced across the street. Freddie was just

getting ready to pull out into the street when he

reached the car and jumped in.

“What the hell!” swore Freddie and, as quickly,

was purposefully brandishing a huge pipe-wrench.

“It’s me. Take it easy.” He thrust his face closer.

Freddie blinked in amazement and repeated softly:

“What the hell.”

“Move. Come on,” urged Ichiro.

“Sure.” He shot the car down the street and sped

away from the church and the people and the funeral.

I shouldn’t do this, he thought to himself. I ought

to go and see the thing through properly. I owe her

NO Y NO Y 244

that much. In a way, she did a lot for me, a lot more

than most mothers. Looking at it from her side, it was

a helluva lot. She meant well. She was all wrong, all

crazy and unfeeli tubborn, but she t

.*.*. It wasn’t her fault that things idn’t go right. It wasn’t she who wished the war on

all of us and got the Japs thrown off the Coast and

stirred up such a mixed-up kind of hatred that no one

could think or feel straight. No, in her way, she was

right and I’m still wrong, but I mustn't admit it. I

want to stay here and find a place where I can work

and eat and laugh a little sometimes. Is that asking

for too much? I am right. She made me do wrong, but

I am right in knowing what must be done. I will find

work somehow, somewhere, and I will eventually

learn to laugh a little because I shall want to laugh

for feeling good all over. Time, how slowly it passes.

I will hope and wait and hope and wait and there

will come a time. It must be so. She is dead. Time

has swept her away and time will bury my mistake.

She is dead and I am not sorry. I feel a little bit freer,

a bit more hopeful. Tº -

The car swerved hard, squealing around the corner

and jarring him away from his thoughts.

“Goddamn,” swore Freddie, “didn’t see that red

light.” He gripped the steering wheel with both hands

and drove recklessly with an almost frightened de

termination.

“What's the hurry?” he said alarmed.

“You askin’?” He kept his eyes straight ahead.

“Yes.”

245 No! No 2

3 25

“For crissake. He’s askin’.

“Well?”

“You told me. ‘Take off,' you said.”

“You can slow down now. I didn’t mean it that

way.”

Braking the car hard and suddenly, he threw it to

a stop against the curb. “Make up your mind, for

crissake. You can do better, you drive.” He fumbled

for a cigarette underneath his coat and, poking it

into his mouth, jabbed at the lighter. He waited nerv

ously, pulling out the lighter too soon and sucking

uselessly on the cigarette. He tried to get it back into

the hole but his hand was trembling too much.

Ichiro took the lighter from Freddie and, after re

placing it, struck a match for him. “What’s eating

you?” He remembered how quickly the wrench had

been in Feddie’s hand.

“Nothin'. You got me nervous, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“Why? Take off,' you said. I took off didn't I?”

“I thought you were going to slug me with that

wrench.”

“It was a mistake.”

“What’s got you so scared?”

“Nothin’, dammit. I ain’t scared of nothin’.” As he

gestured with his hand, he knocked the head off the

cigarette. For a minute, he pawed furiously at the

glowing embers on his coat. Then he was sucking busily

on the stub, which wouldn’t rekindle. He crushed it

between his fingers and threw it against the dash.

“Jeezuz,” he moaned, “don’t ever do it again.”

Not No. 246

“What’s that?”

“Scare me like that. Goddammit, don’t ever do it

again or I’ll shove a knife right between your balls.”

Heaving a long, drawn-out sigh, he slumped down

and let his head rest on the steering wheel.

“Thanks for coming to the funeral,” Ichiro said.

“Sure.”

“Want me to drive you home?”

“No. I'm okay.”

“Who did you think I was?”

“One of them guys.”

“What guys?”

“I’m sorry about your mom. It’s tough.”

“Better this way.”

“Sure. Still tough, anyway.”

Lighting a cigarette, he tapped Freddie on the

shoulder and put it in his mouth. Freddie sat up, no

longer trembling.

“Who’s after you?”

“Some guys.”

“What for?”

“I cut him.”

“Who?”

“Eto.”

“Oh.”

Freddie started to laugh, then said defiantly: “He

asked for it. He come up to the bar and started diggin'

at me. I told him to beat it. He wouldn’t go. He kept needlin’—me. The guys were laughin’.” -T

“Everybody?” He had to know.

“No. Some of them were tellin’ him to lay off. He

T- ----

247 NOY NO &

wouldn’t. Then he said shit like me wasn’t good

'nough to spit on. I told him to try it. He did, but

The was drunk. The stuff just dibbled down his chin.

God, I hate the bastard.”

“So you used your knife.”

“I said I would. I was mad.”

“Bad?”

Freddie laughed. “In the ass. When I went for him,

some guy behind him pulled him off the stool. It

swung him around and I got him in the ass.”

“And then?”

“The Chinaman stopped it, the one who runs the

place. He wasn’t fixin’ to lose his license because a

couple of hotheads wanted to mix it up. He made

us shake hands. What could I do?”

“Then it's all right.”

“Sure, fine. Just fine. On the way home, they tried

to run me down.”

“Coincidence, that’s all.”

“I was on the sidewalk, way inside against the

buildings, and the car didn’t miss me by more than

an inch.”

“Oh.”

Starting the car, Freddie eased it out into the street.

He was smiling, fully recovered from his recent fright.

“Bastards,” he muttered. “Think they own the

country. They better keep outa my way.”

They drove for a little while in silence until they

came to a drive-in restaurant. Freddie ordered ham

burgers and coffee for the two and tried to make time

with the carhop.

No 3 NO & 248

“What have you been doing?” asked Ichiro.

Freddie frowned. “You’re in a rut. You asked last

time.”

“I guess I did.”

“Well, I’m still havin’ fun, boy. Livin’ it up.”

“Still have your poker sessions?”

“Interested?”

“A little. A guy’s gotta do something.”

“That’s tough,” said Freddie, not unhappily. “I

knew you’d come around, but you’ll have to fix it up

yourself. I don’t play no more.”

“Games getting too rough?”

“It’s never too rough for me. I like 'em rough. I

can’t stand them guys.” He spit through the window.

“They’re all chicken.”

The carhop came back and hooked the tray to the

door. Freddie ogled her shamelessly. The bill came to

eighty cents. He tossed a dollar twenty-five on the

tray and told her to keep it. She smiled.

“I’ll make it yet,” he said, handing over a ham

burger and coffee to Ichiro.

“Nothing like trying.”

“Boy,” said Freddie, “she’d be a nice change from

the fat pig.”

“2-Ap”

“Yeah,” he replied defiantly, “you got one good

memory. You should be a professor.”

“Your luck’s holding.”

“Itchy-boy, you don’t know the half of it. I got

a silver spoon up my ass. Her old man likes me. Can

you beat that?” He indicated the car with a sweep of

24 NO Y NO &

his arm, throwing bits of relish on the dash. “This is

his. “Use it,” he says, “any time you want.’”

“Doesn’t he know?”

Freddie bit his lip, suppressing a chuckle. “Sure.

I’m doin’ him a favor. ‘I go bowling on Wednesday

nights,” he says to me. ‘Saturdays I get together with

the boys for a little game. Don’t get home till real

late. I like movies too,” he says. “I go a lot to movies.

I let you know when I go to the movie,” he tells me.

‘You can run me down and use the car. No use lettin’

the car sit outside while I’m in a movie.” He don’t

say he knows, but he knows all right. She was killin’

him before I moved in. He’s a nice guy. Timid, you

know. Don’t say much, but he’s one good Joe.”

“Screwy.”

“Huh?”

“Sounds to me like he’s screwy.”

“He’s not screwy enough. That's his trouble.” He

laughed loudly, enjoying his own joke immensely.

The conversation made him feel a little sick. He

stuffed the rest of his hamburger into the coffee cup

and reached past Freddie to set it on the tray.

“Don’t like it? I think it’s good.”

“It is. I’m just not very hungry.”

“Yeah,” said Freddie with an obvious effort at

sympathy, “it’s tough. Guys like you take it hard.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Nah.”

“HOW’s that?”

The question seemed to embarrass him for a moment.

He twisted uneasily in the seat. “Ah, they’re old

NO Y NO & 250

country,” he said. “They shoulda never come here.

They had no right to come here and born me and

try to make me old country too. All that crap about

Japan. Japan this, Japan that, hell, after what they

done to me, you’d think they’d learn, but, no, the

stuff they dish out is still the same. Like an albatross

'round a guy’s neck. That’s what they are. They sure

screwed me up right.”

“Why don’t you move out?”

“What? I told you I'm livin’. No rent to pay, plenty

to eat, money to spend, a car, a woman—I ain’t givin’

all that up. Besides, their line of crap don’t faze me

no more. Let 'em talk. They got nothin’ else to live

for.”

“You make a lot of sense, Freddie. I never quite

thought of it that way.”

“That way about what?”

“About their having nothing to live for except

making enough so that they could go back to the

old country and be among their own kind and know

a little peace and happiness.”

“No kiddin', I said all that?”

“I thought so.”

“Maybe I’ll go to school,” said Freddie. “I’m not

so dumb.”

He looked at Freddie grinning broadly, and felt

sadly cheated. On the surface, there was wit and

understanding and even a rough sort of charm, but

one made a mistake in probing underneath. He under

stood now why Freddie was so constantly concerned

with living, as he called it. It was like being on a pair - -

25I NO Y NO &

of water skis, skimming over the top as long as one

traveled at a reasonable speed, but, the moment he

slowed down or stopped, it was to sink into the nothing

neSS that Offe r pport.

T“I’d like to go home, if you don't mind,” he said

to Freddie.

“Sure, sure. Don’t blame you. It's tough.” He

leaned on the horn, ignoring the prominently dis

played signs requesting patrons to blink lights for

service. A different carhop scurried over and, eyeing

him hatefully, quickly removed the tray. “Any time,

honey,” he hollered at her back.

Backing out of the slot, he gunned the car into the

street and jarred it over the strip of raised concrete in

the middle to avoid having to drive a block to make

a U-turn. rove like a man possessed with per

ate cy to move fast round in a frantic

pose of running from reality. To stop and sit still would

mean to think.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

things and was glad for himself that he was bearing

the problem inside of him and making—an effort to

seek even a ial release from it. He could only

imagine what Freddie's nights must be like.

“Take it easy,” he said.

Freddie neither turned his head nor slowed down.

“Sure,” he said.

“Have you thought any about working?”

“Na. Ain't got time.”

“You will eventually.”

“I’ll think about it then.”

No 3 NO & 252

He waited for a moment before he asked the next

question: “Any of the fellows working?”

“You want a job?”

“I don’t have much choice.”

“Go down that place by the lake. You know the one

I mean. Christian Reclamation Center or something.

They know about us guys. I went down there.”

“You?”

“Yeah, just to see. Me and Gary. They put him

on right away. Real nice them church guys.”

“What about you?”

“I told 'em I’d think about it.” He took one hand

off the wheel to light a cigarette.

“Gary the only one?”

“Na, there's a couple others I don’t know.”

“They working anyplace else?”

“Mike's old man's got a hotel and Pat's driving

truck for some cleaning outfit. Some of the guys are

going to school. Just like old times, I tell you.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad.”

“Sure. Same crummy jobs, same rotten pay. Before

the war the Japs got what the white guys didn’t want.

Now, if we want work, we take the jobs the good

Japs don’t want. Gary had a good deal in a foundry.

He lasted ten days.”

“What happened?”

“He’ll tell you.”

“I don’t expect to see him.”

“You wanta work?”

“Sure.”

“I said go to that Christian Center place. Tell 'em

253 No 2 No 2

I sent you. You’ll see Gary. He likes it there. It's

nothin' but a big junkyard and the place is fulla

drunks and dead beats and homos, but they don’t

bother you. They got problems of their own. Gary'll

tell you. He likes it.”

He didn’t mean to sound disappointed, but he

couldn’t help himself. “Sure” was all he could manage,

in a tone full of uncertainty.

Freddie seemed aggravated as he said: “You asked

me, didn’t you? You’re not doin’ me a favor. All I

said was you wanna job, you got one there.”

“I guess I’ll give it a try tomorrow,” he replied,

and remained silent until Freddie let him off at the

Store.

There were no lights on and he felt his way to the

kitchen, swinging his arm around until he found the

pull chain above the table. His mother was dead and

his father was probably now at the Japanese restau

rant hosting the post-funeral supper and making the

most of being the center of attention.

Enjoy yourself, Pa, he said to himself. If this is what

makes you happy, I guess you’ve had it coming for

a long time. And, then, you might be lonesome for

her. What with all the people coming and going ever

since she died, you haven’t had much chance to think

about things. Maybe, the grief is waiting. Or is it

that the grief has finally come to an end for you? It

has for me in a way, her being gone. We’ll have to

talk about it.

He set a pot of tea to boil and, while looking for a

No 3 NO & 254

spoon, came across the old deck of cards with which

Taro had been playing solitaire on the afternoon that

he had gone from house and family. It was an old

deck, limp and greasy, and he had to peel the cards

off carefully one at a time. It was better than nothing.

For the first time it occurred to him that there wasn’t

even a radio in the house. He recalled that he used to

listen to the radio a lot when he had been going to

school. His mother hadn’t liked it. Quite frequently

she would slip into his room where he was studying

and listening to Glenn Miller or Tommy Dorsey and

firmly switch off the set.

Then, when the fellows started to learn how to

dance, he got a bit of the fever himself and started

to buy an occasional record or two until he had a

fair-sized stack. The phonograph player he would

borrow and keep a few days or a week at a time. She

hadn’t approved at all and that was what had led to

the big trouble. At least, it was big then when he

couldn’t afford the price of a player. He had spent

a couple of evenings at home listening to records and

she’d said a few things about wasting time on foolish

pursuits. He hadn’t paid any attention, of course. He

enjoyed listening to the records and saw no harm in

them. It was on a Saturday night that he had gone to

a dance at the church gym. When he got home, the

phonograph was methodicallyjº.;ghlysmashed to bits. Nothing had survived. She had even gone to

the trouble of snipping each of the innumerable

lengths of wire into short pieces no more than an

255 No: No:

inch or two long. She paid for the player and had

the satisfaction of seeing that he borrowed no others.

He justly felt after all these years that she had been

very unfair. A radio, a record player, even a stack

of comic books were small enough concessions, Had

N. she made those concessions, she might have kept her

sons a part of the family. Everything, it seemed, \

stemmed back to her. All she had wanted from America

for her sons was an education, learning and knowledge /

which would make them better men in Japan. To

believe that she expected that such a thing was possible

for her sons without their acquiring other American

tastes and habits and feelings was hardly possible and,

Tyet, that is how it was.

Tragic, he said silently, so tragic to have struggled

so against such insurmountable obstacles. For her, of

course, the obstacles hadn’t existed and it was like

denying the existence of America. If only she had tried

to understand, had attempted to reason out the

futility of her ways. Surely she must have had an

inkling during the years. He couldn’t be sure and,

much as he wished to know where and how the whole

business had gone wrong, he could not, for he had

never been close enough to his own mother.

Thinking that he heard a knocking on the front

door, he remained still and listened. It came again,

faintly, hesitantly. He went through the store, wonder

ing who it could be. -

She had stepped back away from the door and with

the street lamp behind her, shadowing her face, he

NO Y NO 2 256

didn’t recognize her immediately. When he finally

realized that it was Emi, he could only awkwardly

motion her inside.

“I heard only tonight,” she said. “Mr. Maeno read

about it in the paper. I am very sorry.”

“Sure,” he said.

They stood in the dark and tried to see each other’s

faces.

“You know about Ken?”

“Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t know about your mother

in time to get to the funeral.”

“It’s just as well. You didn’t know her.” The bitter

ness wouldn’t be kept out of his voice.

She turned and he caught her face in the half-light

coming from the street through the window. What

he saw made him intensely sad. It wasn’t sorrow or

despair or anxiety, but the lack of these or any other

readable emotions. Her lovely face was empty, even

immobile.

“I’m sorry to keep you standing like this. Do come

in, please.” Grasping her elbow firmly, he led her to

the kitchen.

Emi sat down without removing her coat and

watched as Ichiro glumly resumed his game of soli

taire.

“I’m getting a divorce from Ralph,” she said.

“Does he know?”

“He asked me to get one.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Seems a shame, that’s all. I

5

257 NO & No.

guess Ken never got around to finishing that letter.”

“I hardly think it would have done any good,” she

said.

“Don’t love him any more?”

She uncrumpled a ball of Kleenex and dabbed at

her nose. “It’s been too many years to talk about

love.”

“Son of a bitch.” That wasn’t what he was feeling,

but only what he thought. Yet, how was he to say to

her that a girl like her deserved a better deal than

the rotten one that she had gotten, that a lot of guys

including himself would give a right arm for a woman

like her? He said again, mostly in despair: “No-good

son of a bitch.”

“Please,” she said and she was close to tears.

“Sorry,” he said hastily. Then he added: “This is

sure the time for being sorry. Sorry this, sorry that.

Why'd you come?”

“I heard about your mother. I wanted to see you.”

“I’m glad you came. I hadn’t expected to see you

again and, really, it’s very funny because there’s no

one else I can talk to.”

“Mr. Maeno asked about you. He’s still looking for

someone to work for him.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve got a pretty good line on a job. I’m seeing

about it tomorrow.” He raked up the cards when the

game wouldn’t come out, shuffled, and started to lay

out a new game.

“Stop, please.” She put a hand over his.

NO & NO 2 258

“Sorry.” He grinned at the word, then used his

free hand to enfold hers. “It’ll be nice for the fellows

to have you back in circulation.”

“Really?” She didn’t sound pleased at all.

“Sure. You're still young, pretty—no, you're more

beautiful than pretty. You’ve got a lot to offer any

man. Ralph's a damn fool besides being a son of a

bitch.”

“Don’t.”

“Okay, but he is.”

Talking, she slipped her hand unobtrusively from

between his and back onto her lap. “I’ve been lonely

a long time, Ichiro. I didn’t realize how much until

that night you stopped in and gave me word about

Ken and then hinted you might not be seeing me

any more. Then when Ralph's letter came, I really

began to suffer from it. I’ve got to do something or

go crazy.”

“It takes time,” he said, knowing that it meant

nothing.

“Come and see me,” she pleaded.

“I’m no ou. No good for anybody.”

“Why? Why do you say that:

“True, that's why.”

“It isn't, it isn't, it isn't!” And now she was sobbing

quietly.

He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and put

it in her hand. Emi sniffled into it and wiped her eyes,

trying hard to compose herself.

“I’ll be going,” she said.

259 NO Y NO Y

Without looking at her, he started to lay out a

new game.

“It was after Ken was dead and Ralph's letter had

come and I was feeling so lonely,” said Emi. “I was

thinking then how nice it would be to go dancing

like a long time ago. I was hoping you would come and

take me out. You see how it is? Thoughts of a little

girl.”

“Let’s go,” he said suddenly.

“Where?”

“Dancing.”

“But, your mother.”

“She’s nothing. I ran out on the funeral. That’s

how it is.”

“No,” she said stubbornly, “not tonight. It wouldn’t

be right.”

“Nonsense. What’s more right than two young

people going dancing because they feel like it?”

He straightened his tie and hustled into his overcoat.

She seemed to want to protest further but said no

InOre.

“Come on.” Taking her arm in his, they walked

together out of the store and to her Ford, parked at

the curb. Once in the car and on their way, they felt

relaxed and free and happy.

“Where to?” he said gaily.

“Wherever you wish,” she replied.

The only place he could think of was the Trianon

in mid-town and it disturbed him because it was

likely that he might run into some people there that

No 2 No 1 260

might know him. He drove slowly, trying to think of

some other places. Then it occurred to him that he

couldn’t help finding some place by driving along one

of the busier highways going out of the city. He headed

south, feeling the snug warmth of Emi close to him

and immensely grateful that she had Come to offer

her condôfences. -

They didn't say much either in the car or after they

found a sizable roadhouse and started dancing to a

smooth six-piece orchestra. He was enjoying it and he

felt that Emi was too. This is the way it ought to be,

he thought to himself, to be able to dance with a girl

you like and really get a kick out of it because every

thing is on an even keel and one’s worries are only

the usual ones of unpaid bills and sickness in the

family and being late to work too often. Why can’t

it be that way for me? Nobody’s looking twice at us.

Nobody’s asking me where I was during the war or

what the hell I am doing back on the Coast. There's

no trouble to be had without looking for it. Every

thing’s the same, just as it used to be. No bad feelings

except for those that have always existed and probably

always will. It’s a matter of attitude. Mine needs

changing. I’ve got to love the world the way I used

to. I’ve got to love it and the people so I’ll feel good,

and feeling good will make life worth while. There's

no point in crying about what’s been done. There's

a place for me and Emi and Freddie here on the dance

floor and out there in the hustle of things if we’ll let

it be that way. I’ve been fighting it and hating it and

261 No 2 NO &

letting my bitterness against myself and Ma and Pa

and even Taro throw the whole universe out of per

spective. I want only to go on living and be happy.

I’ve only to let myself do so.

Hanging close to each other until the last note was

gone, they slowly returned to the table to sit out the

next or until they should again feel like dancing. They

smiled at each other, for there really was nothing to

be said. Ichiro saw a man coming toward them as

he lit his cigarette.

He was not a young man and was slightly drunk.

A few tables away he bumped into a chair and had

to apologize, but he didn’t take his eyes from Ichiro

and Emi and he kept on coming.

“Pardon my intrusion,” he said, smiling affably.

“Yes?” The skepticism was heavy on Ichiro's face.

He felt the heat rising within him as he tried to adjust

himself to what he felt was coming.

“I saw you and want to buy you both a drink.”

“There's no need, really,” said Emi pleasantly.

“There is,” he said, his voice rising suddenly, “be

cause I want to. Is that a good enough reason, or isn’t

it?”

“Sure it is.” Ichiro relaxed. The man was obviously

all right.

“Fine. No, don’t ask me to sit down. All I want to

do is buy you a drink. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Pleased, the man went back to his own companions

and, a while later, the waiter came to take the order

***

No 2 NO & 262

for the drinks. They sipped them, eyeing each other

quizzically and looking once or twice at the table of

the man, who, as far as they knew, didn’t look at

them the rest of the time they stayed.

“What do you think?” asked Emi.

Ichiro rubbed his finger over a wet spot on the

table. “I think the man had a lot of Japanese friends

once. Maybe he was a produce buyer or something

and he misses the ones who didn’t come back.”

“That’s no good,” she said.

“I think,” he started again, “he had a son in that

outfit that got surrounded up in the mountains by

the Germans and was finally liberated by the Japanese

boys.”

Emi smiled. “No good.”

“I think he’s a Japanese who's lucky enough not

to look Japanese and feels sorry everytime he sees

a Jap that looks like one.”

“That’s even worse.”

He took the butt of his cigarette and knocked off

the glowing end into the ash tray. “I want to think,”

he said soberly, “that he saw a young couple and

liked their looks and felt he wanted to buy them a

drink and did.”

“You keep on thinking that. That's how it was.”

They rose, embraced, and moved out onto the dance

floor.

“He probably had his eye on you,” he said.

“Sure,” she said, “other women they look at and

undress. Me, they undress and put in bed. It’s some

thing about me.”

263 No 2 No 2

“Keep talking,” he said, feeling immensely full and

wanting that moment to last a lifetime. -T

He didn’t get home until three o'clock, but the

kitchen light was on. The old man, quite sober, was

busily tying up several large packages.

“Japan?”

“Ya, Ichiro. I send tomorrow.”

He hung up his coat and sat and watched. “I felt

sick. I just couldn’t stay for the rest of the funeral,

Pa.”

“That is all right. Mama understands.” He worked

the heavy twine carefully around a brown package

and motioned with his chin for Ichiro to lend a finger.

“You’ll be lonesome Pa, huh?”

“Not so much. Mama was not well. It is better this

way.” He pulled vigorously at the knot, almost

catching Ichiro's finger.

“You plan to keep the store?”

“Ya, it is just right for me. Maybe I fix up a little

bit. Paint the shelves, a better cash register, maybe

I think I buy a nice, white showcase for the lunch

meat and eggs and things.”

“That'll cost money.”

“Ya, but I have. Mama was saving for Japan. She

went for nothing. After a while, I go for nothing too.”

Sweating a bit from the effort of tying the packages,

he wiped his brow with a clean handkerchief and sat

down to pen the addresses. He seemed uncommonly

contented for a man who had just lost his wife. He

was still wearing the new blue suit as if he couldn’t

No 2 NO & 264

take the time to remove it before starting to work on

the packages.

Ichiro watched his father, detecting an insuppressi

ble air of enthusiasm and bubbling glee as he scratched

in the names and addresses in both English and Japa

nese in several places on each package. There were

four in all. The packages were the symbol of his freedom

in a way. He no longer had just to think about sending

them. It was his will to send them and nothing was

any longer to prevent his so doing. He had no visions

about Japan or about a victory that had never existed.

While he might have been a weakling in the shadow

of his wife, he was a reasonable man. He knew how

things were and he was elated to be able finally to

exercise his reasonable ways. Above all, he was a

man of natural feelings and that, he felt, had always

been the trouble with his wife. She tried to live her

life and theirs according to manufactured feelings. It

was not to be so.

“Do you ever think about life?” he asked his son

suddenly.

“What?”

“Ya, that was too sudden,” he said smiling. “I

meant only to say that one must live in the real world.

One must live naturally, not so? It is not always a

happy life but, sad or happy, it can be a good life.

It is like the seasons. It cannot always be fall. I like

fall.”

“Sure, Pa. That makes sense.”

The old man piled the packages neatly on the table

and admired them. “You take time, Ichiro. There is

265 No 3 NO 2

no hurry. I do not understand everything that is

troubling you. I know—I feel only that it is very big.

You give it time. It will work out. After a while,

maybe, you go to work or go to school if you wish.

It can be done. You have a bed. There is always plenty

to eat. I give you money to spend. Take time, ya?”

“Sure, Pa. I’m not worried.”

“So? Good.” And his lips trembled a little and

Ichiro felt that it was because the old man was finally

doing and saying what he should have long ago and

knew that it was too late.

“I’m seeing about a job tomorrow,” he said, heading

for the bathroom.

“Ya, that is good. That is good.” Sitting there con

templatively, he started to work the tie loose from

his neck.

No 2 No 2 No 2 No 1 Iſ) No 2 No Y No 2 No 2

IT WAS THE SORT of morning that non

Seattleites are always ascribing to Seattle—wet with

out being really wet and the whole city enveloped in

a kind of dull, grayish, thin fog. The rain was there,

a finely speckled spray which one felt against the skin

of one’s face and which clung to water-resistant

garments like dew on a leaf. The temperature was

around forty and the clammy chill of the air seeped

through the outercoats and past the undergarments

and sucked the warmth from the very skin.

Emerging from the stifling heat of the bus, Ichiro

shivered and walked briskly down the hill toward

the lake. Through the mid-morning haze, he saw the

great length of yellow-painted fence proclaiming in

red letters as tall as a man that everything beyond

—the disreputable, patched-up, painted shacks and

buildings, the huge piles of scrap, the freshly scrubbed

trucks, the sad men and women—were of that charita

ble community known as the Christian Rehabilitation

Center.

At the gate he inquired of a burly fellow sitting in

a tiny guardhouse the way to the offices. The man

267 No 3 NO &

pointed in the general direction of a cluster of garage

like, wooden structures. Ichiro stood there, showing by

his expression that the directions weren’t at all suf

ficient. The man pulled his arm out of the rain and

sat down so that all Ichiro could see was the top of his

head.

Walking close to the side of the roadway so as to

benefit from the protection of the eaves, he ambled

in the direction pointed out to him. There were stalls

along both sides where the rejected items from a

thousand attics and basements had been sorted out in

a semblance of order and put out for the inspection

of the bargain-hunting public. The junk was piled

on tables, crammed into bins, hung from walls and

ceilings, and pushed out into the drizzling rain. There

were attendants to be seen, mean-looking men and

women whose sole object seemed to be that of seeking

out precious, overlooked cracks and corners into

which more junk could be squeezed. They were like

the junk, patched and refinished but with the wasted

best years irrevocably buried. Neither they nor the

antiquated, scarred, and barely salvaged items that

they pushed about would ever see good days again.

Past the stalls was an expanse of open ground on

which the junk was in the form and shape of yellowed

iceboxes and ancient washing machines and huge

stacks of iron beds and odds and ends of clumsy, rusted

machinery and tangled heaps of pipes and one di

lapidated two-and-a-half-ton army truck minus tires

and wheels and a fender and the motor.

An old man in a long, black raincoat sat on the

No 3 NO & 268

truck bed with legs dangling over the end. Beside him

was a small pile of tools and he sat smoking his pipe

as if he were out soaking up a bit of sunshine. His

eyes, almost obliterated by bushy eyebrows and deep

wrinkles, followed Ichiro's progress patiently.

“What'll you have?” he shouted.

“Nothing, pop.”

“Got some fine refrigerators dirt cheap. I know.

I fix ‘em.”

“I’m not buying today.”

“How 'bout a washing machine. Got one in yesterday

that’s a honey.” Picking up a screwdriver, he pointed

behind him.

“How much?”

“I thought you weren’t buyin'.”

“I’m not.”

“Why you askin’?”

“For the hell of it.”

“You’re cute,” replied the old man, his whole face

wrinkling further into a big smile. “Don’t happen

to have a drink on you, have you?”

Not bothering to answer, Ichiro continued along his

way. He had now reached the buildings which from

the gate had looked like garages and was surprised to

see that they were workshops. Through the windows,

he saw men fixing and painting furniture, repairing

tricycles and wagons, upholstering sofas, sorting rags

and baling them into enormous, rectangular bundles,

and groups of women sewing and cutting and patching

and cleaning clothing and curtains and rugs and

269 No 2 No 2

bedding. They all looked warm and comfortable and

satisfied.

There was a sign on the end of one of the buildings

saying “Administrative Offices” with a red hand

pointing over to his right. He took the corner and

was mildly astonished at the sight of a new one-story

brick building with plenty of glass and surrounded by

a border of young bushes. Pausing at the door, he

fought the urge to turn back and forget about the

job. He brushed his shoes across the large rubber mat

and saw that the woman behind the desk in the lobby

was smiling at him. He took his time, walking in

slow, deliberate steps and concentrating on the smile

so as not to get nervous. By the time he was close

enough to speak to her, he was quite fascinated by

the smile, which had remained precisely the same all

the while he had been watching it.

“Yes, young man?” She spoke quickly, almost

sharply.

It was then that he saw that her eyes were not

smiling and that the smile on her mouth was caused

by a scar on one side of her face that tugged at the

corner of her mouth so that she had not really been

smiling at all.

“I came about a job,” he said.

She pushed one of a half-dozen buttons on a brown,

plastic box and lifted the phone to her ear. Waiting

no more than a few seconds, she spoke: “Are you

available for an interview, Mr. Morrison?”

A pause, then: “A young man. Japanese, I think.”

No 2 NO & 270

“Down the hall to your left,” she said, pointing

with one hand and replacing the phone with the

other. “Mr. Morrison will see you.”

“Thanks.” He walked down the hall, passing several

unmarked doors. Confused, he halted and looked

back at the woman. She was looking straight ahead

and he couldn’t see the smile because it was on the

other side of her face.

“Over here, fella,” Mr. Morrison called, stepping

out into the hallway a few yards still further down.

He was tall, blond, and wore a smart-looking blue

suit. He motioned Ichiro into the office, saying: “Have

a chair. Be with you in a minute.”

There was a desk, a filing cabinet, a typewriter on

a metal stand, and two chairs. He sat down on the

one in front of the desk. It was several minutes before

Mr. Morrison returned.

“I’m Morrison,” he said with arm extended.

Thinking that the man couldn’t be much over

thirty, Ichiro took the hand and said: “Mine is Yama

da. Ichiro Yamada.”

“Ichiro Yamada,” repeated the man fluently.

“How do I pronounce it?”

“Good.”

“Ought to,” he said with obvious elation as he

skirted around the desk to his chair. “Spent fifteen

months in Japan. Ever been there?”

“No.”

“Too bad. Go if you ever get a chance. Fine

country. Fine people. Mihongo ga wakarimasu ka?”

“A little bit.”

271 No 2 No 2

“I speak it pretty good myself. Only way to get

to know the people is to learn the language, I say. I

learned it and I got to know them. I was there before

the war, thanks to my dad. He did a lot of business

there.” He offered Ichiro a cigarette and put one in

his own mouth. “Now, tell me something about

yourself.”

“Not much to say. I need a job. I heard there might

be one here.”

“Someone who works here?”

“No. A friend of a fellow who works here. You know

Gary?”

“Sure thing. Gary's a fine worker, a real artist. He

does the signs on our trucks.” Opening the center desk

drawer, Mr. Morrison withdrew a five-by-seven card

and neatly lettered Ichiro's name on the top. He

asked the usual questions concerning parents, address,

education, special abilities and noted the answers in

the same neat manner on the lines below. Then, since

the question which needed to be asked wouldn’t come

out quite as easily as he had hoped, he made a pretense

of studying the information on the card. Ichiro

squirmed and Mr. Morrison smiled reassuringly and

studied the card some more. Finally, he said: “Gary

has a problem, you know.”

Ichiro looked up, not quite understanding at first,

but quickly grasping what Mr. Morrison was trying

so hard to make as painless as possible for both of

them. “My problem is the same one,” he said in a

very level voice.

“I see.” A look of disappointment crept over his

NO Y NO 2 272

face. To erase it quickly lest Ichiro notice, he tried

to smile, but, failing, rose hastily and turned about

to gaze out the window. “Nasty day,” he said emptily.

“I know,” said Ichiro, sharing the man's discom

fort.

“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Morrison, settling back into

his chair. He smiled but with a weariness which made

him appear for the moment an old man. “If the

question is impertinent, say so, but tell me, if you

will, why you didn’t comply with the draft.”

“That’s a good question.”

“Don’t you know?” He sounded almost angry.

“Not exactly, Mr. Morrison. The evacuation, the

camp, my parents, all of it, and then some, I guess.”

“Have you any regrets?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sorry then?”

“Yes.”

“Sure you are.” He slouched in his chair and

folded his hands under his chin thoughtfully. “I like

my work, Ichiro. I like it because I’m working with

people and for people who need help. Drunks, morons,

incompetents, delinquents, the physically handicapped.

I’ve helped them all and it gives me great satisfaction.

But you and Gary, there’s nothing wrong with you.

You don’t belong here. All I can do for you is to

give you a job and hope. That’s what makes it tough.

Hope is all right, but it’s so much nicer when you

can help it along. I can’t do that for you. I’ve thought

about it a lot. Ever since Gary came. Youth, intelli

273 No: No:

gence, charm, a degree in fine arts, health—he's got

everything. So have you. Makes me feel damned use

less. Both of you could step into a hundred jobs out

there in the city this very minute and do a more

competent job than the people in them. Unfortunately,

they never told me about a therapy for your kind of

illness. Well,” he said, straightening up suddenly,

“no point in adding my woes to yours. How would

you like to work with Gary?”

“I guess that would be all right.”

“It pays thirty-five a week. A little more later on

maybe.”

He thought of the two-sixty-five a month offered to

him by Mr. Carrick in Portland only a week before.

I should have taken it, he thought; if Ma had been

dead then, I would have. It would have been work

that I would have liked. It could have led to some

thing. Mr. Carrick would have been nice to work

for. A lot of things could have been, only they weren’t.

Morrison isn’t to be blamed for being young and

disturbed. He means well. He's doing the best he

can. “That's enough for me,” he answered.

“No need to say yes right this minute, of course.”

“Well, I would like to think some about it.”

“Sure. Let me know in a few days.”

“I will.”

Mr. Morrison rose and came around the desk to

shake his hand once more. “Stop by and chat with

Gary long as you’re here. He can tell you more about

the job than I can.”

No 2 NO & 274

“Fine.”

“Take the side door to your right. You can’t miss

him.”

“Thanks, Mr. Morrison, I’ll let you know.” -

The man held on to his hand all the way out to

the hallway. It seemed as if he were reluctant to let

Ichiro go, for not having done more. He seemed to

be searching for something adequate to say. Finally,

shaking his hand vigorously a last time, he said with

great enthusiasm: “I know you’ll like working here.

Maybe the three of us can find a solution to your

peculiar situation. There’s an answer to everything,

you know.”

“Thanks,” he said again and walked down the

hall to the door.

He found Gary up on a stepladder, working on the

last i in the word Rehabilitation, which was being

painted on a huge, green van. With deft, sure strokes

of the brush, Gary applied the red paint, filling in

the outline of the letter, which he had made with

equal care. Not until he had completed it and leaned

back to appraise his own work did he seem to notice

that he was being watched. Still, he did not turn

immediately. Brush in hand, he dabbed carefully twice

before he looked satisfied. Then he turned toward

the entrance and, recognizing Ichiro, frowned thought

fully.

“Hello,” said Ichiro as Gary climbed down and

came toward him.

275 NO & NO &

“Nice to see you, Itchy,” said Gary.

They shook hands and Ichiro noticed that Gary

still wasn’t smiling although he seemed friendly

enough.

“I was just in to see Morrison. He thinks he can

fix it up for me to work here with you.”

“Fine,” said Gary, “fine.” It occured to him then

that he was still holding the brush in his hand, and

he walked to the back of the shop to place it in a can.

He lingered there, fussing around with jars of paint

and rags and shoving things into a semblance of

order.

Ichiro, slightly disconcerted by Gary’s cool be

havior, walked up to the truck and examined the

lettering. “You’re good. That's all right,” he said.

Gary turned abruptly, and he suddenly grinned

broadly. “What the hell,” r—“

to kick me in the ass. Let's try again.” H

his hand once more and shook Ichiro's vigorously.

“If this is treatment number two, I like it better,”

said Ichiro, greatly relieved.

Gary took cigarettes from his shirt pocket, shook

one half out of the pack, and offered it to Ichiro.

They lit up and sat on a couple of boxes against the

wall.

“I heard you were out,” said Gary.

“Out?” grinned Ichiro. “If this is what it’s like

being out, I wouldn’t have been so anxious.”

Standing up, Gary walked up to the truck and

studied the unfinished job of lettering. He wasn’t

No 2 No 1 276

tall, but slender with wide shoulders and strong,

graceful arms and legs. He ran both hands through

his thick, wavy black hair and stood poised for a

moment with palms clasped behind his neck. “Maybe

it’s a little easier for me,” he said softly as if to himself

and, with back toward Ichiro, no longer aware of his

presence. “I am a painter—that is, I think I am. I

want to be a good painter, an artist. I’m painting

now, but it wasn’t always that way. Before, it was

talk. Sitting over cold cups of coffee covered with

cigarette ashes and talking about life and sex and

philosophy and history and music and real art and

getting so all-fire worked up that I was ready to run

side of a building in a burning frenzy of creation but

never moving and continuing to talk and dream and

sit like I had a lead weight in my hind end. It wasn't

once in a while. It was all the time. Weeks, months,

years, talking and squirming—and maybe working on

canvas once in a long while, but only because you

suddenly ran up against a day or a night when ab

solutely nothing was going on—and not being able to

sniffing around for the chair that wasn’t there. If I

had spent the time painting that I did talking, I

might have had a painting now, a real painting. I

wasted a lot of time. God, there’s so much time that

I’ve wasted.” Fingers tightening about his head, he

squirmed as if in agony.

Ichiro drew quietly on his cigarette and watched as

277 NO Y NO &

the youthful figure worked the tension out of itself

and started again to speak.

“It was good, the years I rotted in prison. I got the

lead out of m and the talk out of my system. I

died in prison. And when I came back to life, all that

really mattered for me was to make a painting. I came

home and said hello to the family and tried to talk

to them, but there was nothing to talk about. I didn’t

stay. I found a room, next to the sky, a big, drafty

attic atop a dilapidated mansion full of boarders who

mind their own business. Old friends are now strangers.

I’ve no one to talk to and no desire to talk, for I have

nothing to say except what comes out of my paint

tubes and brushes. During the day, I paint for my

keep. At night, I paint for myself. The picture I want

is inside of me. I’m groping for it and it gives me

Pº.º.º.º.He turned and the peace he spoke of was clearly written on his face: “What was unfortunate for you

was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Sure,” said Ichiro, as he looked deep into his

friend’s eyes to detect the fear and loneliness and

bitterness that ought to have been there and saw

only the placidness reflected in the soft, gentle-smile.

“I’m not crazy,” said Gary.

“I wasn’t thinking that,” said Ichiro reassuringly.

“It’s just that I’m finally on the right track. If that

makes me crazy, I won’t argue about it.”

“If it’s right for you, that’s all that matters I sup

pose.”

No 2 No 2 278

Going back to the worktable to get his brush, Gary

ascended the ladder and resumed lettering. “I’ve got

to get this out before lunchtime,” he said.

“I might as well run along, anyway,” answered

Ichiro.

“Stay and watch, if you like. It won’t bother me.”

“It was nice seeing you again.” He started to walk

Out.

“Wait.”

Gary jumped down off the ladder and walked up

to Ichiro. “I’m sorry if I made you feel unwelcome

when you came. It wasn’t that at all. I’m just for

getting how to be sociable. I think we could get along

very nicely working together.”

“Thanks, but I think my mind was pretty well

made up before I came here. You can tell Morrison

that I’ve decided to pass up his offer. Maybe I’ll see

you around.”

“Sure.”

As he started out, he remembered Freddie's having

mentioned Gary's brief period of employment at a

foundry. He paused and, standing at the entrance,

called back: “Gary.”

He was beginning to climb the ladder, but stopped

on the third rung and waited.

“What happened at the foundry?”

“Happened?”

“Yeah. Freddie said you had a good deal there.”

Gary smiled. “Fine fellow, that Freddie. He didn’t

tell you?”

“No.”

279 NO Y NO Y

Descending to ground level, Gary came close to

Ichiro. “I’m glad he didn’t, seeing you have to know.

He would have made it sound worse than it really

was. It was a good job, a good deal as far as the money

was concerned. The work was hard, of course. With

overtime and all, I was taking home close to a hundred

a week. There were a number of vets in the same

shop, even a couple I'd known pretty well at one

time. They steered clear of me. Made it plain that

I wasn’t welcome. But, hell, I have to eat too. I guess

they spread the word around because, pretty soon,

the white guys weren’t talking to me either. Birdie

knew about it too, but it didn’t seem to matter to

him. Birdie's a colored fellow. He took a liking to me.

He let everybody know that anyone wanting to give

me a rough time would have to deal through him.

I heard he used to spar with Joe Louis some years

back. I had plenty of protection. I should have left

then, I guess, but I figured if I got killed accidentally

by a falling sewer pipe or had my brains mangled by

a crowbar, maybe it was something I had coming to

me. As I’ve said, I like a guy that’s come back

from the dead. Living on borrowed time, you know.

akes one a bit anxious, of course, but there's a peace

about it that takes away all the ordinary fears of

getting hurt or dying. I kept on working, ignored but

not minding it. Really, it didn’t bother me one single

bit. Birdie pretty near got into a couple of fights over

me, but only because it seemed to bother him for

some reason. I kept telli im n at for me,

that I didn’t mind not being spoken to or being called -

No 2 No 1 280

names, but he couldn’t see how that could be. He

was suffering for me, really suffering. There’s still

plenty of good people around, you know.”

Ichiro nodded, thinking of Kenji and Emi and Mr.

Carrick.

“There isn’t much more to say,” continued Gary

quietly. “I knew, if I stayed on, that something

would happen to me. I could feel it building up in

the awful quiet that kept getting bigger and meaner

every day. And they sensed that I wasn’t frightened

and that seemed to make it all the worse. Again, I

say I should have left like a sensible individual, but

I didn’t. There was no guarantee that I wouldn’t

run into the same sort of thing someplace else. The

way I saw the whole thing was that the worst they

could do to me was to kill me and, since that didn’t

make one bit of difference to me, why should I give

up a good income? It was all too simple. Somebody

was smart enough to figure that I’d probably show a

little more coſcern for someone else.”

“Birdie?”

“Yes, the bastards. They loosened the lugs on his

car. He lost a wheel going fifty miles an hour and

rolled over three times.” He added, with a voice full

of emotion: “Not a scratch. He got out clean.”

“They don’t know what they’re doing.”

“I shouldn’t say that. They know too well what

they’re doing. Go for broke, you know. You’ve heard

it.”

“Sure.”

Gary rubbed the wooden tip of the brush thoughtful

281 NO Y NO &

ly against his cheek. “This is a bad time. Bad for us,

that is. The atmosphere is full of emotion. Too much

of the heart and not enough of the mind. Makes

bastards out of good guys. Later on, things will soften

Town. Reality will make them lose some of their

cocksureness. They’ll find that they still can’t buy

a house in Broadmoor even with a million stones in

the bank. They’ll see themselves getting passed up

for jobs by white fellows not quite so bright but white.

God’s green land of democracy f - e

doze s, and get kicked i face with sº

fortunate mistake about the reservation story because

he’d signed the letter Ohara and the guy at the resort thought it *::::::::::#.". to have a name like ārā and feel that maybe when they

made up the batch of orders upstairs one of the Lord's

workers neglected the apostrophe and so the guy

turns up in the U.S.A. a Jap instead of an Irishman.

That’s beside the point, however. When they find

out they’re still Japs, they’ll be too busy to be mean

to us.”

“You really think there will come a time when

what we’ve done will be forgotten?” -

“I didn’t say that. They’ll forget. Some of the guys

who have it real tough might even envy us secretly.

Time will make them forget, but I’m not so sure that

we will. Right now, I say the situation is highly

emotional. They’ve gone all out to prove that their

blood is as red as Jones's or Torgerson’s or Mayo's or

what have you. They’ve just got through killing and

NO Y NO 2 282

being killed to prove it and I don’t blame them one

bit for not hesitating to kill us. You and I are big,

black marks on their new laundry.”

“What if it had turned out the other way?”

Gary smiled. “You run along home and talk to your

self about any if's and but’s about the thing. I only

chirò stretched out his arm and grasped Gary’s

hand firmly for a moment. “I’ll think about what

you’ve said. Makes sense.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

He walked out of the garage and past the new

building and around the workshops and up toward

the gate without seeing the old man still sitting on

the truck that would never run again. The fine drizzle

had turned to a steady rain and, waiting for the bus,

he shivered slightly and noticed that he hadn’t but

toned up his raincoat. With groping fingers, he worked

the buttons into the holes as he gazed back down the

hill at the shabby collection of buildings which he

had just left. The rain pelted his head, worked into

his hair, and dripped down the back of his neck, but

he was like a man whose mind was momentarily

detached from his physical being.

He was thinking about the apostrophe, the topside

comma, the period with a tail on it. It was the little

scale on which hinged the fortunes of the universe.

It was the slippery, bald-headed pivot on whi an

ung, unborn and unna until suddenly he found

283 No: No:

himself squirming on one side or the other. It made

a difference, of course, which side he chose to fall off

on but, when a fellow can’t see for the heavy clouds

down below, he simply has to make up his mind in

a hurry and hope for the best. Was that the erratic

way of the Almighty? Ohara, O’Hara. Lock up the

apostrophes for a while. We've got too many Irish

IIlen.

He heard the bus but wasn’t quick enough to leap

back as the wheels sloshed against the curb. The

blackened spray clung to the front of his raincoat

and he made it worse by rubbing his hand over it.

Getting on, he deposited his token and settled down

in a seat next to a dozing man.

It wasn’t his fault. Neither was it the fault of his

mother, who was now dead because of a conviction

which was only a dream that blew up in her face. It

wasn’t the fault of the half a billion Chinamen who

hated the ninety million Japanese and got only hatred

in return. *...*.*.*.*.*.

hatred in the world. Where was all the goodness that

people talked about, the goodness of which there was

never quite enough to offset the hatred? He recalled

how he’d gone to a church in Idaho with Tommy,

who was always reading the Bible. Tommy would say

grace before he ate a lousy peanut-butter sandwich

out in the choking dust of the sugar-beet field when

all the other guys were cussing and bitching and

stuffing the bread into their dirty faces. They gave

Tommy a bad time. Freddie had been with them,

too. He was the one who claimed he heard Tommy

No 2 NO 2 284

thanking God for the Sears-Roebuck catalogue one

day while squatting over the hole in the outhouse.

Tommy didn’t seem to mind. He just smiled as if he

understood it all. That's why he’d gone along with

Tommy that day instead of playing poker in the

bunkhouse. If Tommy had the answers, he wanted to

know about them. They had slipped into the church,

where Tommy had already gone for several Sundays.

The service being in progress, they sat in the back.

He sensed immediately that they weren’t welcome.

Tommy seemed not to notice at all the furtive glances

and the unguarded whispering. He had been glad

to get out of there and, as they walked to the bus

depot, the car had pulled alongside of them.

The man leaned out of the car: “One Jap is one

too many. I told them: Two Japs today, maybe ten

next Sunday. Don’t come back.”

He’d gone back to his poker games and Tommy

didn’t go to town until they moved on to another

farm. After several weeks Tommy, short and squat

and studious looking, approached him in the showers.

“There’s an excellent church in this town,” he said,

“a true, Christian church where they are glad to

have us. Why don’t you come with me this Sunday?”

“Shove it,” he had said and immediately wished

he hadn’t when he saw the hurt look in Tommy's

eyes.

“Just this once, please,” he pleaded, taking a step

forward. “I’m quite sorry about the other time. I’d

like to make it up to you for having given you such

a poor start.”

285 No 2 NO &

In the end he had agreed and it seemed that Tommy

was right. It was a small church, but filled to capacity

and, after the service, the congregation had displayed

their friendliness to the extent of keeping them standing

outside for an hour asking questions and conversing

endlessly, as though they were old friends. By the third

Sunday they were having dinner with Mr. Roberts,

who had six children but still insisted on their coming.

Ichiro was delighted and Tommy was beaming.

It was the sixth or seventh Sunday, he couldn’t

remember exactly. What with the heat and the

crowded benches, he started to squirm out of his

jacket, twisting as he did so, and he saw the white

haired Negro standing in the back. He wondered

then why the usher hadn’t gotten out one of the folding

chairs which were often used when bench space ran

out. He was comforted when, a few minutes later,

he heard chairs being rattled in the back. He took

another look after the minister had finished his sermon

and the Negro was still standing. The chairs had been

for the Kenedys, who had arrived late, and they

were sitting only a few feet away from the Negro.

There was no whispering, no craning as there had

been in the other church. Yet, everyone seemed to

know of the colored man's presence. The service

concluded, the minister stood silent and motionless

on the stage. The congregation remained seated in

stead of disintegrating impatiently as usual into a

dozen separate chattering groups. Very distinctly

through the hollowness of the small church echoed

the slow, lonely footsteps of the intruder across the

No 2 NO & 286

back, down the stairs, and out into the hot sun. As

suddenly, the people came to life like actors on a

screen who had momentarily been rendered inani

mate by some mechanical failure of the projector.

He had gone straight back to the bunkhouse by

himself. He was mad and it hadn’t helped any when

he couldn’t get into the poker game right away. It

was almost an hour before someone dropped out and,

when they quit late that night, he had dropped his

earnings plus a week and a half’s wages still to be

earned.

A few days later Tommy, reluctant to lose one who

had appeared such a promising recruit, tried to justify

the incident. “The ways of the Lord are often mys

terious,” he had said. “There are some things which

we cannot hope to understand. You will feel better

by next Sunday.”

“Save the holy crap for yourself,” he had replied.

“Seems to me like you goddamned good Christians

have the supply spread out pretty thin right now.”

And then Tommy had revealed himself for the

poor, frightened, mistreated Japanese that he was.

“Holy cow!” he had exclaimed in a frantic cry, “they

like us. They treat us fine. We’re in no position to

stick out our necks when we’ve got enough troubles

of our own.”

“Good deal. You hang on to it, will you? Son of

a bitch like you needs a good thing like that.”

When he left him to join the others whom Freddie

was entertaining with his inexhaustible stock of filthy

jokes, he thought he heard a whimper.

287 NO Y NO &

That happened before I had to make the choice,

he thought. That was when we were in the relocation

camp out in the God-awful desert and it seemed like

living to be able to be free of the camp for brief periods

working for peanuts on a sugar-beet farm. That was

all before I made a mess of everything by saying no

and I see now that my miserable little life is still only

a part of the miserable big world. It's the same world,

the same big, shiny apple with streaks of rotten brown

rotten in spots underneath the skin and a good,

sharp knife can still do a lot of good. I have been

guilty of a serious error. I have paid for my crime as

prescribed by law. I have been forgiven and it is only

right for me to feel this way or else I would not be

riding unnoticed and unmolested on a bus along a

street in Seattle on a gloomy, rain-soaked day.

Through the front of the bus, he saw the clock

tower of the depot. He could have ridden a couple

of stops further, but he rose and pulled the cord.

He stepped out into the rain, turning the short collar

of the raincoat snugly up around his neck. Here was

the bus station, the same stretch of concrete watk on

which he had stood with his suitcase that morning he

had first come back to Seattle and home and, yes,

friends too. He was young still, but a little wiser.

Perhaps he was a bit more settled in heart and mind.

And the rain, it was appropriate. “After the rain, the

sunshine,” he murmured. It wouldn’t be quite as

easy as all that. It could rain forever for all he knew.

Still, there had been a lot of goodness that he had not

No 2 No 2 288

expected. T om for all kinds of people.

Possibly, even for one like him. -

I’ve got to keep thinking that. I will keep thinking

that. It’s only a thread, but how much it seems in a

life where there might have been nothing.

He walked up to the depot and turned up Jackson

Street, and, while he waited for the light to change,

the cluster of people at the bus stop hardly gave him

a glance.

No 2 No Y NO Y NO Y II No 2 No 2 No 2 No 2

HE LAY ON THE BED listening to the oc

casional night noises which drifted through the walls

of the old frame building which was both business

and home. There was, now and then, the gentle whir

of rubber tires speeding over concrete, the foggy blast

of a semi’s air-horn far off in the distance, the muffled

rumble and jar of trains being switched not too far

away. It was a time of quiet, but, for Ichiro, the

uneasiness prevailed.

The telephone rang out in the store. He listened to

its ringing. Once, twice, three times—ah, he got it.

“Ichiro.”

“Yes?”

“It is for you. The telephone.”

Throwing his legs over the side, he fumbled his

feet into shoes.

“Ichiro,” called the father with a bit more in

sistence.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.” Trailing laces which clicked

along the floor, he hurried out. Behind the counter,

the old man was holding the receiver out to him.

“Who is it?”

NO & NO & 290

“I do not know. Somebody who wishes to speak

with you,” said the father with a shrug.

“Hello,” he said into the phone.

“Itchy?” It was Freddie.

“Yes.”

“This is Freddie.” He sounded like a little kid.

“Hello, Freddie.”

“Hi. Let’s do somethin’.”

“What?”

“Whatcha mean what? Somethin'. I got the car.

You doin’ anythin’?”

“Taking it easy.”

“What the hell. You gotta get out and do some

thin'. I’ll pick you up, huh?”

“Well . . .”

“I’ll tell you what. I’m gettin' me a shine and

maybe fixed up. You remember where that place what

used to be a cigar store is? On Jackson up from where

the movie was. You know, that place where all the

guys used to buy the dirty comics.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Great. It’s a shine parlor now. I’ll see you there

in fifteen, twenty minutes. Check?”

“Well, I . . .”

“Goddammit, you gotta get out and live, I told

you. If you ain’t shown when I get there, I’m comin'

to your place.”

“Okay, okay,” he said with more irritation than

willingness.

“Great. Fifteen, twenty minutes like I said.”

291 NO Y NO &

He put the phone down and reached for a package

of cigarettes.

The old man was thumbing through a catalogue

of store equipment with a satisfied look on his face.

“Who was it?” he inquired without looking up.

“Freddie.”

“Akimoto-san's boy?”

“Wants me to go out with him.”

“Ya. That is fine. You go and have a good time.”

He punched open the register and handed his son a

couple of bills.

“Christ, Pa,” he blurted out, “I can’t keep taking

money from you.”

“Pretty soon you get a job,” his father said softly.

“It will take time, I know. It is all right. I want

you to have the money. I want you to have a good

time.”

“I don’t know. I’m not a kid any more.”

“Take,” he urged, “it will make me happy. Mama

gone, Taro someplace else, only you and me now.

We will find a way.” His face puffed up as if he were

going to cry.

“Okay, Pa, if that’s how you want it.” He slipped

the money into his shirt pocket.

“Ya,” said the father as he walked to the front and

locked the door and began to turn off the lights,

“I’m going to fix up a little bit. Buy a few things for

the store. You can go to school and help me sometime

maybe. That would be good.”

“Sure.” He sensed that his father was, perhaps,

No 2 NO & 292

beginning to feel a bit lonesome. In the semidarkness

he appeared very much like a frightened, lonely man

and not at all the free and expansive soul he had

seemed so short a time before. “Sure, if a job doesn’t

turn up, I might go to school and help you out here,

Pa.”

“That would be nice, Ichiro. Mama would like

that.” N

“Great,” he said curtly, and was immediately sorry.

She's gone now, he thought. I don’t have to fight her

or hate her any more. It will take Pa a little while to

get used to being without her. “I can give you a

hand around here until something comes up or I

decide to go back to school,” he said soothingly.

The old man nodded agreeably as he walked to the

kitchen with the catalogue.

Freddie was up on the chair getting his shoes shined

by a white-haired, scrawny Negro who whipped the

polish rag expertly over the now gleaming shoes.

“Itchy, boy,” shouted Freddie, “pull up a chair.”

Ichiro climbed up next to his friend, surveying the

dingy narrowness of the place, which was garishly

dominated by a multicolored, giant juke box standing

in the back.

“How 'bout it, Rabbit?”

The Negro looked up without breaking the whipping

rhythm of the rag and, in marked contrast to the

celerity of his arms, uttered lazily: “Not tonight, boy.

Tomorrow maybe. All my gals are booked, I tell

you.”

293 No 3 No 1

“What the hell! My buddy here's been stirrin’ for

two goddamned years and he can’t wait till tomor

row.”

“Yeah?” He craned his neck to appraise Ichiro.

Then he looked at Freddie: “Same deal?”

“Yeah, yeah. Same as me.”

“Good boy. If they had come for me, I would of

told them where to shove their stinking uniform too.”

He finished off the shoes with several long, slow swipes.

“Shine?” he asked Ichiro.

“No thanks.”

Rabbit ran the rag lightly over Ichiro's shoes and

straightened up.

Freddie hopped down and put a hand on Rabbit's

shoulder. “C’mon, Rabbit. Fix us up.”

“Sorry. It’s like I told you. I want to help, but

that’s how it is.”

“Shit!” said Freddie, stepping back angrily. “Always

tellin’ me you can get a guy anythin’ he wants. Big

talk, that’s what.”

Rabbit smiled calmly, “I got you that nice Elgin

real cheap.”

“So whattaya want me to do? Go to bed with it?”

“You’re small enough all right.”

“All right. All right, wise guy. I got your number

now. Ain't nothin’ but a bag of wind. C’mon, Itchy.

Let’s blow.”

Quickly, Rabbit stuck out his hand. “Two bits for

the shine, mister.”

Freddie dug up a quarter and slapped it into the

outstretched palm.

No 2 No.2 294

“How's about a nice radio cheap?” said Rabbit.

Without bothering to answer, Freddie stalked out

with Ichiro close behind. They walked down the

block to the car and got in. Lighting cigarettes, they

sat and smoked in silence.

“Well, that screws that,” finally said Freddie.

“What’s that?”

“That damn Rabbit. Always talkin' big. “Any time

you want a gal,’ he’s always sayin’ to me, ‘Rabbit’s

the boy to see.” The guy’s full of crap. From here on

in, this boy's shinin’ his own goddamned shoes.” He

rolled down the window and flipped the cigarette at

a passing car. “How ‘bout some pool?”

“Well . . .”

“You shoot pool?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“But what? Do you or don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well?”

“Sure.”

Freddie got out of the car and Itchy followed.

They walked back up the block past the shine parlor

and around the corner to a pool hall. There were

three tables, all empty. Freddie said “Hi’” to the

sleepy-looking Japanese man behind the cigar counter.

“Hello, young boy,” said the man in unschooled

English. “Take table way in back and don’t make

trouble.” He was a heavy man of around fifty with

rumpled slacks and shirt.

“Like hell I will. We’re usin’ the good table.” He

went to the first table and, slipping the rack over the

295 NO Y NO 2

neatly set-up balls, proceeded to jiggle them back into

position.

The man, his face hardening perceptibly, grabbed

Freddie's arm and pulled him firmly away from the

table. “I say back table. I see you play before. That

one good enough for you. If you no like, get out.”

Freddie glared back at the man, his hand reaching

out to curl menacingly over the cue ball.

Ichiro moved quickly between them. “Come on.

It isn’t worth blowing your stack about.” He jostled

him lightly. “I thought you were going to show me

a good time.”

“Aghh, friggin' Jap. Always out to give me a bad

time.” He threw the rack on the table and said flip

pantly: “Okay, let's have a ball.” Still glaring at

the man, he sauntered toward the last table.

The man restrained Ichiro momentarily with a tug

on his sleeve. “That one, he no good. I know. Always

trouble.”

“Sure, sure,” said Ichiro, “he’ll be all right.”

Shaking his head, the man went back to his stool

behind the counter.

Freddie was pulling cues off the wall rack, holding

them up against his eye for alignment, brandishing

them like swords for weight, and testing them for

balance on a finger. “Hell, gimme a broomstick,” he

said exasperatedly. He tried a few more and finally

selected one. “Flip for break, Itchy boy.” He tossed

a coin high into the air.

“Heads,” said Ichiro, his back toward his companion

as he examined the cues against the wall.

No Y NO & 296

Freddie snatched the falling coin and, without a

glance, put it back in his pocket. “You lose. My

break.”

Cue ball in hand, he spent many deliberate moments

spotting it for the initial shot. He settled on a location

close to the bank of the table and crouched to make

the break. Jiggling the cue, sighting, jiggling the

stick some more, shifting his feet, moving his buttocks,

he finally pulled back and plunged the stick forward.

There was a faint click as the cue flailed up and away

from the felt. The white ball, rolling askew, banked

against the side and rolled easily into the neat pyramid,

merely distorting it a bit. “Son-of-a-bitchin' cue.”

It all happened too quickly for Ichiro to intercede.

The stick flashed up and down with a resounding

whack against the table. A piece flew up and against

the wall.

“All right, boy. All right, boy. You ask for it.”

The crimson-faced man was hurrying toward them.

“Rotten Jap.” Freddie plucked a ball and threw it

at the furious proprietor, who sought cover behind one

of the tables. The ball crashed into a case of empty

pop bottles. “Beat it!”

They ran for the door, Freddie managing to toss

a few more balls in the general direction of the enemy,

and Ichiro running blindly with only the desire to get

away. There was no further pursuit, but they ran all

the way to the car.

Once again they sat in silence, waiting until they

regained their breath and then lighting cigarettes.

297 No 2 NO Y

“You’re crazy,” said Ichiro.

“Agh, he won’t do nothin’.”

“He might.”

“Let him. Who gives a damn.” Freddie punched

his butt against the dash, letting the burning crumbs

fall to the floor of the car.

“This what you call living it up?”

“Better'n nothin'. You got somethin’ better to do?

Give.”

“I could be sleeping.”

Freddie chuckled, then stared blankly ahead. He

looked much more haggard than he had in the apart

ment that day which seemed such a long time ago.

hatred of the complex jungle of unreasoning that had

twisted a life-giving yes into an empty no, blindly

sought relief in total, hateful rejection of self and

family and society. And this sorrow, painfully and

hūmānely felt, enlarged still more the understanding

which he had begun to find through Ken and Mr.

Carrick and Emi and, yes, even his mother and father.

He turned to Freddie, who stared ahead now with

the face of a tired, old man. “Freddie.” There was

no response. He tried again, a little louder this time:

“Freddie.”

“Yeah. That’s me.”

“We can go to my place.”

“What for?”

“Talk.”

“We’re talkin’ now.”

No 2 No 2 298

“Okay. What's bothering you?”

Freddie looked thoughtful, then defiant. “Nothin’.

How come you ask?”

“Seems to me like you’re out to lick the system

singlehanded.”

“I ain’t, but if I am, so what? I’m just livin’.”

“Take it easy, Freddie.”

“Aw, can it.” Anger pulled his face taut as he

yelled at Ichiro: “I didn’t ask you out to give me

no lecture. I get my belly full at home. And that

fat pig. Soon’s I line me up a real babe, she's done.

I’m gettin' sick a her.”

Ichiro wondered if he should try again to get Freddie

to go home with him. He didn’t enjoy being with him,

but, now that he was, he felt some reluctance about

leaving him alone. “There’s beer and whisky at my

place,” he said. “Why don’t we go?”

“Nuts. We’re gonna do somethin’.”

“What?”

“Who gives a damn. Anythin’.”

Thoroughly disgusted, he replied evenly: “Fine.

Have a good time.” He pushed open the door and

started to get out.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” shouted Freddie,

“we’ll do somethin’.”

Ichiro sat down. “All right. Name it.”

“Sure.” Freddie thought for a moment. “Let’s go

have a drink. Someplace nice, with people around,

but not jumpin'. You know.”

“No, I don't.”

299 NO 2 NO &

“You know, for crissake. You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I know just the place,” he replied with heavy

irony in tone and expression. “The Club Oriental.”

“Naw, what the hell you—” he started. Then,

brightening mischievously: “Why not?”

“Wait a minute,” he objected hastily. “You’re not

taking me seriously?”

“Free world, ain’t it?”

“Sure, but—”

“Chicken?”

“No, no, but there’s no sense in asking for trouble.”

Freddie was starting the car, his face aglow with

devilish excitement. “Ain’t nobody tellin' this boy to

stay on his side of the fence. I got teeth and hair like

anybody else.”

“I thought they were laying for you.”

“So what? I ain’t scared no more. You and me, we

can take 'em.”

“Oh, no. I’ve got more brains than you think.”

Ichiro heard his voice rising with the mounting

anger. “What in hell is the matter with you? We’ve

got troubles now. What good is it going to do to look

for more? You're in real bad shape if you think—”

Freddie raised his hands defensively. “Whoa, whoa.”

He smiled impishly. “A drink. That's all we want—

a nice, quiet drink. We’re goin’ there and have a

peaceful drink, maybe two. No trouble. No fights.

Anybody says anythin', I'm headin’ for the door.

Okay?”

“If you really mean it, sure.”

Not No. 300

“Okay, that’s how it’s gonna be. First sign a trouble,

we blow. Check?”

“Fine.”

“Double check.” He shoved the lever into low gear

and, with tires screeching, abusively whipped the

car away from the curb and up the street.

Wanting to protest, wanting to get away from

Freddie and his madness, Ichiro sat silently trying to

resign himself to the situation. Freddie was much too

erratic to be trusted. Still, there was a hint of logic

in his stubborn defiance....;

would have to make peace with their own little world

before they could enjoy the freedom of the larger one.

Maybe Freddie is on the right track, he told himself;

but he found no comfort in his thoughts.

Freddie drove up the hill past the dingy stores, the

decrepit hotels, the gambling joints, looking for an

opening big enough for the car and not finding one.

He cursed a steady stream of violent oaths all the way

around the block. Finally, he turned into the alley,

drove up to the door of the club, and parked under

a sign reading “Absolutely No Parking.”

“You’re asking for a ticket,” warned Ichiro.

“So what? Ain't my jalopy.” He got out and waited

for Ichiro.

“We aren’t being very sensible. I’d rather not, you

know.”

“Can it. We’re here, ain’t we? Nothin's goin’ to

happen.”

“I have your word?”

Freddie yelled: “I give you my word, didn't I?

301 NOY NO &

You want I should cross my heart on a stack a Bibles

Or somethin’?”

He started toward the entrance without answering.

Hitting the buzzer, they waited for the release to

buzz back. Ichiro looked at Freddie, who, for the

first time, appeared a bit apprehensive. It comforted

him to know that he was on the defensive. Perhaps

there wouldn’t be any trouble. They both grabbed

for the door as the buzzing started, and then they

were inside. The place was dim, smoky, and crowded.

“I guess we picked a bad night,” said Ichiro hopeful

ly.

Freddie nodded silently. He looked all wound up,

his face tense and watchful instead of arrogant.

“Shall we go?”

Freddie shook his head, not looking at his com

panion, but keeping his eyes roving vigilantly over

the crowd. “We’re in,” he said finally, pointing to

the bar, where a couple was preparing to leave.

They hurried to take over the stools.

Hemmed in, as it were, on both sides and with his

back to the people at the tables, Ichiro felt oddly

secure. He lifted his glass and said: “Here's to Kenji.”

“Who’s he?”

“A friend who asked me to have a drink for him.”

“Some guy in stir?”

“No, a friend.”

“Okay, to your friend, wherever the son of a bitch

may be.”

“That wasn’t necessary.” His voice was low and

firm.

No 2 NO & 302

“Jeezuz,” said Freddie startled, “I didn’t mean

nothin’. I’m drinkin’ to him, ain't I? If the guy was

a real son of a bitch, I wouldn’t waste the price of

a drink on him. If he’s a friend of yours, he's okay

with me, I’m tellin' you. To him, your friend.” He

raised his glass.

At that moment it occurred to Ichiro that he and

Ken had been talking in a very similar vein when

they had sat at this very bar. It seemed appropriate.

He smiled and raised his glass toward Freddie's. The

glasses never met, for, suddenly, Freddie’s shoes banged

against the bar as he shot straight back off the stool.

Ichiro turned and felt sick at his stomach. Bull,

grinning hideously, held Freddie helpless by means

of a beefy fist which gripped the victim’s coat collar

twisted tightly against his back.

Freddie struggled. “Let go, you stupid bastard.”

“Make me, Jap-boy.” Bull looked to the crowd

for appreciation.

“Let him go,” said Ichiro a little nervously.

“Make me,” said Bull with the meanness in his

dark face. “This little shit’s been askin’ for it.” |

“Cut it out, Bull,” said a voice out of the crowd.

Jim Eng was pushing his way to the disturbance.

“All right, all right,” he kept repeating in an agitated

squeak.

Bull shoved Freddie around and pushed him toward

the door. Someone grabbed at his arm, saying “Leave

him alone.” He shrugged off the hand angrily. “Any

body wants to butt in, I’ll bust his balls for him.”

303 No 2 No 2

The crowd opened up for Bull and Freddie. Ichiro,

close behind, was momentarily restrained by a hand

pulling at his sleeve. He turned, ready for the worst.

“Stay out of it, fellow. It won’t do much good.”

The one who spoke was a pleasant-looking youth with

a black-gloved hand hanging with awkward stiffness

at his side.

“I haven’t got much choice.”

“Let me buy you a drink. You’re not the brawling

kind.”

The door slammed, and Freddie's loud protestations

were cut off. Ichiro pushed his way out to the alley,

where Bull was trying to propel his undersized op

ponent away from the illumination around the club's

entrance. He ran up to the pair and took hold of

Bull’s arm.

“Let him go,” he pleaded. “We won’t come back.”

“I’m makin’ damn sure of that. You goddamn

Japs think you’re pretty smart, huh? I wasn’t fightin’

my friggin' war for shits like you.”

Freddie, sensing his chance, drove an elbow sharply

into his aggressor's stomach. Bull grunted, momen

tarily relaxing his grip, and Freddie wrenched him

self free and sprawled forward.

Ichiro, seeing Bull lunge to recapture his prey, threw

his shoulder against the solid mass of flesh and muscle.

They rolled down the alley, clawing at each other and

straining muscles to seek a victory in the senseless

struggle. When they stopped rolling, Ichiro managed

to gain the top position. Straddling the infuriated Bull,

Nº 2 Nº. 2 304

~

he shoved his face against the hate-filled countenance

of the one who chose to speak for those who had

fought and died.

“Please,” he screamed, “please, don’t fight.”

And Bull cursed and strained and heaved with the

strength which could not be restrained much longer.

Driven by fear, urged by a need to fight this thing - ~ -

which no amou ghting would ever dest

ItalS is fist and drove it down. He saw the eyes

flinch, the head trying to avert the blow, and then the

nauseating gush of blood from nose and mouth.

“I’ll kill you.” The words, spoken with icy fury,

gurgled out through a mouthful of bloody sputum.

And Ichiro looked into the angry eyes and saw

that to quit now would mean to submit to that unre

lenting fury. He raised his fist again, sick with what

he was having to do. Before he could strike, how

ever, he felt himself being pulled off.

“That’s enough,” said someone.

“Break it up,” said another.

Bull was up on one elbow, his hate-filled eyes intent

upon Ichiro. “Okay,” he grunted, a hint of a smile

showing cruelly through the streaks of blood.

“Bull, no more!” a voice said authoritatively.

“Yeah? Who says?” He wiped a sleeve across his

mouth and started to push himself off the ground,

his eyes never for a moment wavering from Ichiro's.

Ichiro watched, not wanting to fight, and making

no effort to run from the hands which held him only

loosely. There was a sudden clatter of footsteps, and

305 No Y NO &

he saw Bull, not quite in a sitting position, raise both

arms defensively as he fell backward.

In that instant, Freddie plunged his heel into the

stomach of the fallen opponent. Bull gasped with

pain, swore mightily, and seemed almost to throw

himself upright. Startled by the speedy recovery,

Freddie stood stock still for a moment. Not until Bull

had taken steps toward him did he make a frantic dash

for the car.

Bull, clutching at his mid-section with one arm,

managed half a dozen steps before stumbling to his

knees. He cursed continually, the hateful sounds

painfully strained. Again, he rose to his feet and pro

gressed erratically toward the car, which Freddie was

furiously trying to start. Just as it roared to life, Bull

pulled open the door. He reached in and grabbed at

Freddie, who squirmed away and countered by

swinging a wrench, which caught Bull on the side of

the head.

The car jumped forward, throwing Bull roughly

aside. The motor coughed. There was a hectic jiggling

of the gas pedal, and the car screeched through the

alley. A pedestrian, about to cross the alleyway, jumped

out of the way with comic haste. -

“Crazy damn fool,” said a voice behind Ichiro.

Ichiro watched the car plunge out across the street.

The next instant there was a muffled thud. The car

which Freddie drove seemed to jump straight into the

air and hang suspended for a deathly, clear second.

Then it flipped over and slammed noisily against the

Nº 3 No 2 306

wall of the building on the other side of the street.

Not until then did he notice the smashed front end

of another car jutting into view.

Someone was running to the overturned car. There

was an excited shout and another and, soon, people

were eagerly crowding toward the wreck from all

directions. He stood there alone for a long while,

feeling utterly exhausted, knowing, somehow, that

Freddie would have to fight no longer.

Over by the club's entrance, Bull was sitting with

his back against a trash can; his head hung between

his knees.

He went up to him and said: “Bull.”

“Get me a drink,” he moaned without stirring.

“Sure.”

“Damn.”

“What?”

“That son of a bitch. I hope it killed him.”

The club door was open. Inside, the juke box was

playing for one couple at a table and a solitary figure

at the bar who was too drunk to move. He went

behind the bar and grabbed a bottle.

A Japanese youth, probably about Taro's age, came

running in. Flushed with excitement, he exclaimed to

Ichiro: “What a mess! Didja see it? Poor guy musta

been halfway out when the car smacked the building.

Just about cut him in two. Ugh!” He hastened into

the phone booth.

Ichiro took a drink out of the bottle and made his

way back out to where Bull was still sitting.

“Here.”

307 No: No:

Bull moaned, but made no move to accept the

bottle.

He took hold of his hair, pulled him straight, and

shoved the bottle against the bloody mouth. Bull

drank, coughed, and drank some more. Then grabbing

the bottle away from Ichiro, he let his head drop

Once more.

“They say he's dead,” said Ichiro gently.

“So what?”

“Nothing. Just that . . . that . . . I’m sorry.”

Bull swung his face upward, his eyes wide with

horror, the mouth twisted with rage yet trembling at

the same time. The throaty roar was mixed with

streaks of agonized screaming verging on the hysterical.

“Yeah? Yeah? I ain’t. I ain’t sorry one friggin' bit.

That little bastard’s seen it comin' a good long while.

I ain’t sorry. You hear? I ain’t sorry. Damn right I

ain’t. I hope he goes to hell. I hope he . . .”

The words refused to come out any longer. Mouth

agape, lips trembling, Bull managed only to move

his jaws sporadically. Suddenly, he-elamped-them

shut. His-cheeks swelled to burstings—and the eyes,

the frightened, lonely eyes, peered through a dull

film of tears and begged for the solace that was not to

be had.

T“Aggggggghh,” he screamed and, with the brute

strength that could only smash, hurled the whisky

bottle across the alley. Then he started to cry, not like

a man in grief or a soldier in pain, but like a baby in

loud, gasping, beseeching howls. -------

A siren moaned, shrieked, then moaned to a stop

Not No. 308

with a screeching of brakes. A car door slammed.

Official voices yelled at the crowd. The murmur of

the curious filtered through the alley.

Ichiro put a hand on Bull's shoulder, sharing the

empty sorrow in the hulking body, feeling the terrible

Toneliness of the distressed wails, and saying nothing.

He gave the shoulder a tender squeeze, patted the

head once tenderly, and began to walk slowly down

the alley away from the brightness of the club and the

morbidity of the crowd. He wanted to think about

Ken and Freddie and Mr. Carrick and the man who

had bought the drinks for him and Emi, about the

Negro who stood up for Gary, and about Bull, who

was an infant crying in the darkness. A glimmer of

(hope—was that it? It was there, someplace. He

couldn't see it to put it into words, but the feeling was

pretty strong.

He walked along, thinking, searching, thinking and

º probing, and, in the darkness of the alley of the

community that was a tiny bit of America, he chased

that ſaint and elusive insinuation of promise as it

continued to take shape in mind and in heart.

ſº

RETURN TO: CIRCULATION DEPARTMENT

198 Main Stacks

LOAN PERIOD 1 || 2 3

Home Use

4 || 5 6

ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS.

Renewals and Recharges may be made 4 days prior to the due date.

Books may be renewed by calling 642-3405.

DUE AS STAMPED BELOW. l

FEB 1 3 2005

Jul 17 2003 -

RM NO. DD6 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELEY

1-04 Berkeley, California 94720–6000

coasall,7**

  • Front Cover
  • Preface ...
  • No 2 No 2 No 2 No 2 | No ...
  • \\ ...
  • and I hope she's happy because I’ll never know the ...
  • in their pockets and a thirst for cokes and beer ...
  • No Y No 2 No 2 No 1 2 No ...
  • ~ * … " - ...
  • went through the store and on out without looking ...
  • No 2 No 2 No 2 No 1 3 No ...
  • —given both legs to ...
  • No Y NO Y NO Y NO Y 4 No ...
  • No 2 No 2 No 2 No 1 5 No ...
  • completely—would-be-impossible, but I don't have XO ...
  • wº ...
  • No 2 No 2 No 2 No 1 6 No ...
  • he cherished. Things are as they should be, he assured ...
  • to him and be with him for a few minutes ...
  • milk cans. Ever since eight o’clock tonight. Puts them ...
  • No 2 No 2 No 2 No 1 7 No ...
  • thing to the - ey screamed because the ...
  • he thought, and then he started to smile inwardly ...
  • No Y NO Y NO Y NO 2 {} NO ...
  • No 2 No 2 No 2 No 2 !) No ...
  • No 2 No 2 No 2 No 1 Iſ) No ...
  • tall, but slender with wide shoulders and strong, ...
  • ly against his cheek. “This is a bad time. Bad ...
  • being killed to prove it and I don’t blame them ...
  • No 2 No Y NO Y NO Y II No ...
  • FEB 1 3 2005 ...