Live Encounters Poetry & Writing January 2025
Anne & Dennis Finish Their Trip, story by Dirk van Nouhuys.
Dennis and Anne had played together as children when their families had farmed neighboring prune orchards in what is now Mountain View, California. In 1942 history separated them. The government sent Anne’s family to an internment camp because they were Japanese. Her father made a handshake deal to nominally sell his orchard to Dennis’ father with the understanding that he would return it when the internment ended. Dennis’ father reneged on the deal and kept the farm so Anne’s family returned to poverty, homelessness, and a sense of betrayal, but child Dennis knew nothing of that that. In 1973, by chance someone reintroduced them. Anne was a social worker and Dennis an assistant district attorney. Her name meant nothing to him, but his was still part of a thorn in Anne’s heart. Over lunches she gradually made him recall their childhood acquaintance and his father’s betrayal. Then she challenged him to go with her to see the place where she had been interred. He accepted.
After their visit to the camp, now hardly more than empty acreage in a mountain valley, they stopped in a motel and went to a local café for dinner.
It had a Formica counter with stools, but rustic wooden tables and chairs; with a glance together they chose a table. The wall showed posters of desert scenes, a lake, and also one of the Creekside Inn. Three bulky men in Levi’s sat at the counter with their backs to their table. Two wore wide-brimmed Stetson hats and sat next to each other while one sat separated by one stool. A large jukebox on a side wall was silent. A friendly, middle-aged woman, blond frizzy hair and a generic blue uniform, brought menus and water. Anne ordered fried chicken and asked if they had wine. “Sure honey,” the waitress replied and Anne ordered the white. Dennis ordered a burger with all the extras, fries, and a beer. As they were waiting for their food Anne nodded at the men at the counter, who had their back to them, and wondered, “Farmers or truckers?”
“The two together, farmers, look at the dirt on their cuffs. The one alone is a trucker — look at his clean boots,” Dennis replied.
The trucker rose and fed serval quarters into the juke box. Take it Easy by The Eagles filled the room. Walking back to the counter he looked over Anne, who smiled at him gently. A song by Hank Williams and Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get it On” was playing when the food arrived. Dennis slid his fries into the space between them. The Gaye was the last of the trucker’s tunes. Anne and Dennis had never talked about what music they liked and began to exchange names as if they had recently met. Anne liked the Beatles and Linda Ronstadt. Dennis began to talk of La Boheme, then thought of Madame Butterfly and dared to ask Anne if she knew it.
“I’ve heard recordings. I read the text.”
“What do you think?”
“Cio-Cio San and Pinkerton are both clichés. I don’t think Puccini knew shit about Japan or Japanese. Where did he get that stuff?”
He remembered that South Pacific involved one inter-racial romance and another where the obstacle was the partners’ mixed race children. He asked her about it, and she said she liked some of the songs but didn’t know the story. She sang a bit of “I’m going to wash that man right out of my hair.” She had a smooth singing voice, pleasantly rich.
“Have you had musical training?” he asked.
“I was in the choir in high school and college. Do you play?”
“The guitar sometimes. I’m not noted for it.” Then he said, “You were divorced.”
“Yes.” She reached for a fry and asked, “When we were gone, did you go into town often?”
“When I was in the lower grades I got into town maybe once a quarter, to a doctor’s appointment or with my mom to shop at Hart’s. When I was ten or so I could go in on the bus by myself. I did that with friends sometimes. I’m embarrassed to ask, when did you return?”
“In 1945, in January.”
“I’m sorry, where did you go?”
“They found an apartment in Japan Town in San Jose.”
Dennis hid behind his burger.
“But you asked about when I was married,” she said.
“Can I ask about it?”
“You speak by asking.”
“I’m sorry. It’s a DA habit I guess.” He was both stung and glad she’d said it.
“We can talk about it.”
“What happened?”
“I think it started at the camp. We had a school. It was another one of the barracks rigged up with chairs and blackboards. It was pretty nice. The teacher was a Caucasian woman. I loved her.“
“Whom did she work for?”
“I don’t know. The county maybe? Now that barrack is gone with the rest. But you see I wanted to be at school with my friends, not back in our crowded “apartment.” You know my father can be difficult. When we got out we found a small apartment in Japan Town. My father got a job in Hakone Gardens. Have you been there?”
“No. I’ve heard of them.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said slowly and continued, “Some of my friends from the camp were in my class, and there were other Japanese girls because of the neighborhood.”
“What about boys?”
“They didn’t count. It seemed like we could be just like anyone else. I wanted to be like the other girls. I wanted to dress like them. We wanted to buy clothes at Hart’s.” She shrugged almost as if she were cold, “I wanted to be more like other girls than they were. When I got to high school I was a cheer leader.”
“I can see you,” Dennis said as if the image has startled him.
“I worked my butt off. I was pretty enough and made the moves so it didn’t matter what shape my eyes were. The white guys could throw me up.”
Dennis looked at her eyes. They looked at him.
“Were you a cheer leader at State?”
Anne nodded, “A ‘flyer’” and took another fry.
“And you married the ‘base’?”
“No, it wasn’t like that. I majored in sociology.”
“What does that mean? What did it mean then?”
“Will you shut up and let me talk?”
“I’m sorry”
She put her hand on his forearm, which was nestled on the table,. “Take it easy,” she said.
He turned his hand over and turned hers and looked into it as if he were reading her palm. She withdrew it.
“There’s a stereotype about Japanese women, that they are quiet and self-effacing. You can’t have escaped it.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, it’s not so simple. Do you remember my mother?”
“I little bit.”
“She would be in your face now.”
“I only…”
She interrupted him. “The guy I married, was a graduate student when I was an undergrad. He wanted to record people’s stories. He thought sociology was too much numbers. He wanted to leave stories for posterity. He wanted to collect stories of people who had been interned. He got a grant, and the office connected me with him to work as his assistant and sometimes interpreter.”
“How many people…”
“I actually got paid in the beginning. When I graduated I kept on. One thing led to another. He got a Ph.D. He wanted someone to keep quiet and be there for him. After the money ran out he married me. I thought he was in charge.” She laughed wryly then added: “It took me a while to figure out that’s not what I was.”
“How long were you married?”
“Four years, from when I was 22 till I was 26.”
“How did you figure it out?”
“The answer stalked me year by year, but one day he came home from the lab. There was something I wanted to tell him, like — I’ve forgotten what it was. But, before I could speak, he told me how much he loved me because I was just there, ‘like air’.”
“Air is invisible.”
“Yes.” She had been regarding her wine glass but looked up. “You get it.”
“I try.”
“Thank you.”
“You didn’t have any children.”
“He didn’t want to be disturbed. You can go to the library and listen to the tapes. You could listen to my father and to my mother.”
“I guess I have to meet them”
“That can be arranged. What would you say to them?”
“I don’t know yet.”
They talked about music again briefly. The teenagers who had registered them at the Creekside Inn came in and the guy talked to the waitress. The girl held the boy’s arm and nestled her head on his shoulder. Anne and Dennis walked behind them when they left. The couple turned towards the main street while Anne and Dennis walked silently to their cabins. Venturing together into one or the other hung between them like a fissure in the air, but they did not close it.
Anne wanted to return by a northern, scenic route. In the moring they continued north on US 395 past Mono Lake, which spread out like a sky-blue veil thrown on the ground. Highway 395 continued north in a deep river valley to the intersection of a state highway. A sign warned them that it was closed from October to May. The well-paved but narrow two-lane road wound west with a river in a gorge for a while and then climbed in a steep, twisty grade to the Sonora Pass. Anne had chosen this route because of the scenery and the exciting road but fell asleep wrapped in her blanket shortly after they turned off US 395. Dennis pondered if she had had a restless night after the emotions of the day. He did not question her emotions.
When they reached the Pass — 9,624 — feet he pulled over in a view space and she woke to the cessation of motion. They climbed out to survey rocky ground with sparce trees and above them looming snowy peaks. The car had been warm, but this air was thin and cold although the sun was bright. They both looked back towards the road in a twisting gorge behind them and then at the same before them. The peaks on each side funneled gentle wind around them. Gentle but chill.
Dennis gestured toward the way they had come. “In the days of the wagon trains people died, froze and starved coming up there.”
“Do you smell something musky?” Anne asked.
“Maybe pines and dust?” Dennis said.
“But the pines are sparse and the rocks wiped bare,” Anne considered.
Dennis did not answer.
“It’s a little creepy,” she said.
“The smell, you mean?”
“Do you know if there are foxes up here?” she asked
“I doubt it.”
“But you don’t know.”
“No. The wind is blowing west. Let’s go with it,” Dennis said
They changed drivers and climbed back into the warmth of the car.
Along the narrow road in a twisty valley snow survived among black trees close to the pavement. Traffic began to thicken and sometimes the road widened to four lanes to let the fast pass the slow. Then they were in hills and then on the agricultural plain that led to Modesto. They crossed from east to west and then rejoined the road they had come on. The traffic approaching Mountain View on a Sunday evening was cloying.
Dennis parked in front of her apartment building on Castro St., now the main drag of Mountain View. He could not come to the street without thinking of Cuba, but she was used to it. He pulled into the parking lot and they unloaded her suitcase. They walked together to the entrance way enclosed with clear plastic like a bus stop and turned to face each other. Dennis thanked her for making him come and said he was very glad he had accepted. Anne thanked him for coming and said he had surpassed her expectations. They stepped a little closer so they were a hand length apart. Then they each spoke at the same moment, something neither of them ever remembered, just to stretch time.
“If we made love,” Dennis asked, “What would it mean?”
“It would mean we are important,” she said.
“I want very much to be important.”
“I know.” She touched his chest.
“Are you free next Friday?” he asked.
“Yes. Do you want to meet my parents?”
“Another time.”
They kissed, not passionately, but not casually.
© Dirk van Nouhuys
Dirk van Nouhuys is an American writer, computer scientist, and translator known for his work in fiction and non-fiction. His literary works span various genres, including novels, short stories, poems, and essays. He is currently working on a novel centered on the history of San Jose, Ca. from 1932 to the present, of which this story is an excerpt. He has contributed something over 100 items to literary magazines and journals. Van Nouhuys’ writing often explores complex characters and intricate narratives, reflecting his keen interest in the human condition and societal issues. You can learn more about him at his web site, www.wandd.com.