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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
wº
N \
sº
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
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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 ...