1943. Shanghai. A soldier of the Japanese Army happens by a club one night purely out of boredom. What he expects to find are uncouth drunks. He actually meets a beautiful African-American performer by the name of Beatrice. Throughout the next three...
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niijuu-ni
twenty-two
1947
Chicago
Lifting a hand to wipe the sweat from her brow, she exhaled a sigh. It was nearing midday and the sun was at its highest. Already, toasty brown skin had perspired and flushed red.
"Bea, come on in the house." Turning towards the voice, she stood.
"Yes, ma'am." Wiping her hands on the smock, she removed her straw hat before entering the house. A woman nearly identical to her smiled as she came into the small foyer.
"What you doing out there baby?"
"Pickin' your weeds Momma."
"Sweet girl, you ain't gotta do that. Here, come on and help me tenderize this meat."
"Yes, ma'am." The woman smoothed back her sweaty hair and pressed a kiss to her temple before leaving her to her new task.
It had been a whole year... a year and four months since she'd returned home. It had been difficult re-assimilating... and even after a year, she hadn't completely got it. She found herself still bowing her head sometimes, replying in Japanese or Mandarin, and had to learn to stop walking around the house completely naked. It was all she'd known for so long and now... now she had to force herself to forge her own definition of what 'normal' meant.
Normal would have been returning home with Joe. Normal would have been being back in the swing clubs and bars, singing and performing. Normal wasn't her normal anymore.
Taking the wooden tenderizer, she began to beat the meat, eyes in space. Her dreams were haunted, memories of what once was... what still lived in her mind and behind her eyes.
She hadn't been able to grip reality as it was... a permanent stain on her psyche. It'll take time baby. Give it time. The low comforting voice of her mother would always bring her back when she'd ventured too far out. She'd told her what she could manage of her experiences... much of it too hard to even utter. She couldn't bare telling her she'd been raped. It would destroy her. She'd been destroyed enough... having to learn that her son had been murdered. It took Momma a while and she still think she cried about it. But, she was trying to be strong and sound for her.
"That's enough Bea, it's already dead."
"What you say?"
"Look what you doing." Glancing down, she felt her cheeks grow warm. She'd flattened the poor slab until it was nearly in pieces.
