Clark and Division Read online

  I wished that one of our Issei doctors from Southern California was in Chicago to look after us. But most of them were still in one of the ten concentration camps across America. There were more than a hundred thousand Japanese Americans who needed their help there.

  “I bought some sandwiches,” Roy said.

  “Pop. Food,” I said to my father, who was still standing by the door as if he had entered a stranger’s home. “Roy bought us some sandwiches. You need to eat.”

  Pop slowly made his way to the middle of the dining room. He bowed from his hip until the top of his head almost grazed the edge of the table. In Japanese he said, “Thank you for all you have done for us.”

  “It’s nothing, Ojisan. I’m so sorry.” I thought I heard Roy’s voice crack.

  I went to retrieve the box of sandwiches from the counter. When I turned back around, Pop was gone, as was one of the beer cans. I scowled and was going to go into the bedroom and scold him for drinking on an empty stomach, but Roy stopped me.

  “Let him be, Aki. He needs some time alone.” He drained his last bit of beer. “It was bad, huh? To see her like that.”

  I felt strangely protective of Rose in her deceased state. Why did Roy have to make a comment about how she looked? “What happened? Were you with her?”

  Roy shook his head. “The police went by her apartment and one of her roommates called me at work. They told me that it was probably suicide.”

  “You know that Rose would never have killed herself.”

  “It must have been an accident then.”

  I didn’t dare bring up the abortion with my parents in the next room. “Did Rose have a boyfriend?”

  Roy frowned. “Not that I know of. What, did she mention something to you?”

  I heard the bedroom door swing open and then my father’s footsteps in the tiled bathroom.

  “I better get going.”

  “I need to talk to you. Soon,” I said in a hushed tone.

  Roy got the message that I didn’t want my parents to be part of the conversation. “Well, maybe we can have a drink sometime.”

  “I’m not going to a bar with you, Roy.” In camp I had sometimes heard that Roy was a bit fast, getting too close to girls at dances.

  “I’m working at the candy company tomorrow. There’s a diner nearby. Maybe there.” He recited the name and closest intersection, which I recorded in the notebook I kept in my purse.

  We made arrangements to meet the next day.

  Leaving the empty can on the table, he gestured toward the newspaper. “There’s an article in there about Rose. You might not want your parents to see it.” Those were his last words before he was out the door.

  The article in the Chicago Daily Tribune was brief, the size of a matchbook: a woman had been fatally run over by a train car at the Clark and Division station. There was no name or physical description. The police were investigating the incident, which had occurred at six o’clock in the evening two days before.

  For my family’s sake, I hoped that there wouldn’t be a follow-up article. But on the other hand, I couldn’t let Rose disappear in a two-inch box.

  I felt like collapsing, but I knew that I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep in a bed next to my parents. It had been bad enough in camp, but now with all this grief surrounding us, I wouldn’t be able to breathe. I had to do something.

  It was only seven o’clock and still light outside. I took a pen from my purse and, using the edge of the newspaper, I wrote:

  I went out. I’ll be back soon.

  Aki

  I folded the page with the story about Rose and put it in my purse, then took out Rose’s latest postcard, the one of the Mark Twain Hotel. On the postcard was her return address, an apartment on Clark Street. I went through the resettlement’s “Welcome to Chicago” brochures until I found a Triple A map of downtown.

  I made sure that the door was locked behind me.

  Chapter 4

  I knew that Rose had had a couple of roommates, a Pasadena woman named Louise from the Gila River camp and another from San Francisco whose name I couldn’t remember. If I couldn’t get any clarity from Roy now, I would go to the women who had lived with her.

  As this part of Chicago was arranged in a grid, I could easily figure out where I needed to go on the map. Our apartment building was on LaSalle, which ran north and south. Clark was the next parallel street over and after that was Dearborn. Division cut through going east to west. Since I was used to wandering around Los Angeles and Manzanar on my own, I had erroneously thought navigating to Clark and Division would be a breeze.

  Once I faced LaSalle, the smell of car exhaust overwhelmed me, and the passing traffic blew debris into my eyes. I tried unsuccessfully to blink away the dirt; a stubborn speck remained, causing my eyes to water further. I was a complete mess and had lost all sense of direction.

  I walked the wrong way for two blocks. The grand Chicago of those promotional films we saw in camp was absent during my trek. Here, twilight lacked the comforting glow that seemed to embrace Tropico and the outlying brown hills back home. The gray boulevard seemed unfriendly, full of haggard people scurrying to their next destination.

  For a second I thought about returning to the apartment. Then I found myself standing at the intersection of Clark and Division across from a grand-looking building, newly constructed: the Mark Twain Hotel, the building on Rose’s postcard. To be in the presence of my sister’s touchpoint—a landmark that she identified with, enough to mail me an image of it—was a sign that bolstered my spirit. The street on the other side of the hotel, Clark, was more lively—nigiyakana, as Mom would have said. There were various businesses tightly bound together—restaurants, bars, barbershops and plenty of rooming houses. In the middle of the block, sandwiched in between a cleaner and bar, was my sister’s three-story walk-up.

  At the foot of the stoop were Nisei boys in zoot suits, loose pleated pants and boxy jackets with wide lapels and chains hanging from their belts. I’d seen the pachukes back in Los Angeles, around downtown or Boyle Heights, where a lot of Japanese Americans lived alongside Mexicans, Russians and Jews. I heard stories in camp that the boys would steal the chains connected to the sink stoppers in the block lavatory to adorn their outfits.

  I hugged my purse to my chest and for a second I regretted making this trip on my own.

  “Hey, Manzanar girl. Twenty-nine,” a boy on the stoop called out, causing me some confusion until I recognized our block number.

  I had no idea who this boy was, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk to him. In camp, there were certain boys you knew you needed to steer clear of. With the Issei elders all around, there were lines that they couldn’t cross. But that wasn’t the case in Chicago. I got the feeling that young people ruled here.

  I put my head down and continued up the stairs. I had trouble opening the glass door, and the same boy came around and jimmied the latch. He smelled strongly of musky cologne that almost made me sneeze. “That’s how it’s done,” he said. I tucked my chin away from him and pushed the door open with my left shoulder.

  I went up the carpeted stairs to the second floor. A cockroach skittered by and I remembered Rose writing that the city was infested with bedbugs. I suppressed the urge to scratch my ankles. Insects were the least of my worries.

  On the left side of the stairs was number four, my sister’s residence. I almost dissolved into tears but I took two big breaths. Ochitsukinasai, I ordered myself. I needed to hold it together for Rose’s sake.

  Two firm raps with my knuckles, the rattling turn of a lock, and the door opened to reveal a thin Nisei woman with brownish hair curled up around the nape of her neck. Although it was dark in the hallway, there was soft light from some lamps inside. The woman, who looked a little older than me, wore a fitted tan dress and raspberry-red lipstick. She seemed to know what looked attractive on her ski
nny frame.

  “I’m Rose’s sister,” I said.

  The woman’s face fell. Her eyes and red lips sloped down and she seemed frozen for a moment.

  “I’m so sorry,” she finally said. “Come in, come in.”

  The room held three twin beds, two of them on opposite sides and another that almost blocked the door. Dresses on hangers were suspended from nails high on the wall. The wallpaper beside one of the beds had peeled off, revealing a long crack, stained brown by a possible water leak. There was a small refrigerator and hot plate in a corner but no sink.

  “Aki, right? I’ve seen a photo of you. Rose spoke about you all the time. I’m Louise.”

  The door opened again and another woman entered, a towel around her neck. She had big eyes and heavy eyebrows that seemed drawn on, but were probably all natural. She looked like one of those healthy farm-girl types that could outwork most men.

  “Hello,” she said enthusiastically upon laying eyes on me.

  “This is Rose’s sister,” Louise said in a hushed tone. “Aki.”

  “Oh. I’m Chiyo.” She extended her hand. It felt pillowy and soft until she squeezed.

  I frowned for a moment. Chiyo didn’t seem like she was from San Francisco, and I didn’t recognize her name. “I think there was another roommate.”

  “Oh, you must be talking about Tomi,” Louise said. “She moved out a few months ago. She’s a house girl in Evanston now. Couldn’t deal with the big city.”

  “I took Tomi’s spot. I was living in a hallway before, so this sure is a thousand times better.” Chiyo folded her towel on a hanger and placed it on one of the nails on the wall. When she turned back around, her cheeks were a little flushed. “I didn’t know your sister that long. We didn’t talk much. But I sure am sorry.”

  Was this the way it was going to be from now on? People looking pitifully at me and my parents? I dipped my head in response.

  Louise was bringing me Rose’s tan suitcase. “She had packed all of her things in here—”

  “Her toothbrush and cup are still in the hall bathroom,” Chiyo added. “I’ll go get them.”

  My head was spinning and Louise must have noticed that I was feeling unwell.

  “Here, sit down.” She gestured to the bed that stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, and I sunk into the mattress. The box springs wheezed from my weight. Is this where my sister slept?

  I felt Louise’s eyes all over me as I tried to catch my breath. Her attention made me feel more agitated than grateful.

  Chiyo returned with a red toothbrush and a jar that looked like it had once held strawberry jam. Why I would want that, I didn’t know. But I accepted the items, gratefully.

  “What a terrible accident,” Louise said.

  “Is that what people are saying?”

  Louise and Chiyo exchanged glances. “Well, of course, what else could it be?”

  “The coroner thinks that Rose committed suicide.”

  “What?” Louise seemed genuinely disturbed. Chiyo, on the other hand, didn’t.

  “Rose wouldn’t have done that.” She wouldn’t have abandoned me. “Can you tell me how she was that day?”

  “She hadn’t been feeling well lately,” Chiyo said.

  “Yes, she had been spending a lot of time in bed,” Louise added. “I figured that she caught the flu.”

  My sister, who was strong as a horse. She hadn’t even gotten sick from the inoculations in camp, which had sent others to the latrine every hour.

  “Did she go to the doctor?”

  “No, she refused.” There was regret in Louise’s voice, as if she should have forced the issue. “Some of the hospitals won’t accept us Japanese.”

  “But there’s plenty who will treat us, too,” said Chiyo.

  I needed to understand what had been happening with Rose. “Can you tell me who she was spending time with?”

  “Well, Roy, of course. That’s why I called him when the police came by,” Louise explained.

  “Anyone else? Was she seeing someone?”

  “Not that I know of,” Louise said. “There was really no one else. I mean, all of us would go out to dances and things in a group. And you know Rose, always surrounded by the fellows.”

  Chiyo didn’t confirm Louise’s observation. “I don’t go to dances that much.”

  “She and Tomi spent a lot of time together, before Tomi moved out to Evanston.”

  “Can I get Tomi’s phone number?”

  “Of course. I have to tell you, though, the lady who she is working for doesn’t like her to get many phone calls.”

  “Then her address?”

  Louise sucked her cheeks together as if I was now really inconveniencing her. She knelt by the bed where I sat and pulled out a box from underneath. She leafed through a green address book, then recited an address which I wrote down on the folded newspaper I’d tucked in my purse. As she returned the box to its place under the bed, I saw a stack of books and gasped.

  “Oh, those are Tomi’s old books. We’ve been telling her to pick them up,” Louise said.

  But I had recognized the spine of the diary I had given to Rose as a farewell present. “That’s Rose’s.”

  Louise looked incredulous as I pulled the diary from the middle of the stack, causing the top ones to fall onto the hardwood floor.

  “I made this for her.” I clutched the rough exterior of the diary, my hand covering the letters, Rose, that I had burned on the cover.

  “Oh, it’s wonderful that you spotted it,” Chiyo said as I opened Rose’s suitcase and pressed the diary into her folded clothes. I took out a scarf, one that she had ordered from the Sears Roebeck catalogue for the cold Owens Valley winters, and wrapped it around the jam glass. That and the toothbrush also went into Rose’s suitcase.

  “Yes, we wouldn’t have known that she even had a diary.” Louise stood up and wiped the dust from her fingers and dress. “I never saw Rose write much, except postcards.”

  As I re-latched the suitcase, there was a faint knock on the door.

  “Another okyaku-san!” Chiyo seemed elated. They must not get many visitors.

  It turned out to be another woman around our age carrying a powder-blue suitcase. I almost fainted when I got a look at her. She was a doppelgänger for Rose. She was tall with a long face and a quick smile that would soften any Issei curmudgeon or Nisei bureaucrat. Her voice, however, was much sweeter, completely extinguishing the initial resemblance.

  “Hello. I’m Kathryn. Came from Rohwer, Arkansas. The American Friends sent me. I’m sorry that it’s so late, but they thought there might be an opening here.”

  First an awkward silence, but then Chiyo rebounded, introducing herself and Louise. She hesitated when it was my turn, and I came to her rescue. “I’m Aki.”

  Kathryn took note of Rose’s tan suitcase. “Oh, are you the one moving out?”

  “Ah, no.” I rose from the bed. “I need to go.”

  Chiyo nodded, as if my time was indeed up.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Louise said.

  “You don’t have to.” I felt hurt that Rose was being replaced so quickly. Would her roommates even feel her absence tomorrow?

  “Well, at least out to the staircase.”

  Kathryn said a bright goodbye, and I wondered if anyone would tell her what happened to the girl whose bed was now hers.

  I followed Louise out, noticing the door’s heavy-duty deadbolt, which still looked shiny and new compared to the other hardware in the decrepit apartment.

  At the foot of the stairs, I had to say something. “Rose didn’t kill herself. You knew her the longest, Louise. You know what I’m saying is true.”

  “I didn’t really know her.” Louise tugged on the top button of her dress. “She was off in her world and I was off in mine. I’m so sorry.�
��

  I said nothing more. I held my purse and Rose’s suitcase with one hand as I went down the stairs, lightly touching the banister with the tips of my right fingers. This is the banister Rose touched, I thought.

  Despite her polite and polished veneer, I didn’t completely trust Louise. Why did I have to push to get Tomi’s contact information? And hale and hearty Chiyo too easily accepted the coroner’s theory that Rose had committed suicide. How could they have recovered from Rose’s death so quickly to welcome a new roommate? Did my sister’s life mean anything to them?

  Tomi. Tomi might be the key to Rose’s secrets.

  The entrance of the Clark and Division station appeared in front of me so suddenly I didn’t realize at first what I was looking at. Stairs descended from the street into the bowels of the subway terminal, like the skinny mouth of a monster. I wanted to go down and see the platform where Rose had been standing when she took her last breath. But I had the suitcase and didn’t want to lug it up and down. I’ll come tomorrow, I told myself. Maybe around six o’clock, the time the newspaper article said she had been killed.

  I transferred the suitcase to my right hand. It was getting heavier over each block. Men loitering outside bars, smoking cigarettes and cigars, called out to me.

  “Baby.”

  “Tokyo Rose.”

  “Sweet thing.”

  “Come over here.”

  “Let’s talk.”

  It was dark now and I didn’t feel safe.

  A person wearing an evening gown and heavy makeup—and more than six feet tall—barreled down the street and through the doors of the Mark Twain Hotel. I was starting to figure out that I couldn’t take anything in Chicago at face value.

  After I let myself into the apartment, I still felt unsettled. I took off my heels and crept through the apartment in my white bobby socks. Through the bedroom door, I could hear the familiar snoring of my father. At least my parents were having a respite from the nightmare of our reality.

  In the dining room, I slowly unpacked everything from Rose’s suitcase. There was a small linen closet in the hallway, but otherwise no storage space to speak of. I’d probably have to refold everything and put it back, but that didn’t matter.