Southern Fried Sushi, page 10
Just then a blue pickup truck rumbled slowly, paused by the parking lot, and turned in.
“There’s Adam,” said Becky, heading across the driveway with a friendly wave.
He turned off the truck and hopped out, taller than I remembered him. He ruffled Becky’s hair affectionately and walked over carrying a gas can.
“Hi. Adam Carter.”
“Hi.” I wiped my hands. He put his out to shake it, and I balked. “I don’t think you want to do that. I’ve been feeding that horse, and he’s pretty slobbery.”
Not the best way to introduce myself. I tried again. “I’m Shiloh Jacobs. I live in Japan, but I’m here for … well, a funeral.”
Becky’s eyes were still red. “Becky’s been keeping me company.”
“I’m sorry. I mean, about the funeral.”
In other circumstances his comment would have been funny. “It’s okay. Thanks.”
Adam turned my key in the ignition. The Honda gave a sick little chug and died. “It’s dead all right. Just needs a little gas. This your rental?”
“Yeah. From Richmond.” I colored, afraid he would ask me when I’d last gotten gas. In fact, I hadn’t. “I’m sorry to make you come all the way out here. I can’t tell you how embarrassed I am.”
“Nah. It’s nothing a little gas won’t solve.” He unscrewed the gas cap. Compared to Becky, he spoke English perfectly. A little touch of Southern drawl, maybe, but impeccable grammar.
I studied him as he poured gas in my car: kind-faced and sober, with a much younger face than I expected. Some sandy hair poked out from under his cap.
I wouldn’t describe him as especially handsome, perhaps, but he looked … dependable. I don’t know why. But he did. Sturdy and dependable.
The kind of guy you could count on to bring gas to a stranger in the middle of Nowhere, Virginia.
“So you’re the gardener at the hotel?” I felt stupid just standing there while the gas glugged into my tank.
“No. I’m a landscaper. Run my own business.”
“Wow.”
“Not a big business. But I make do. Companies, or sometimes people, hire me to landscape their grounds.”
The gas can made a tinny pop as it emptied. “Do you like it?”
“I guess so. I like working with my hands and making something natural out of our concrete world.” He shook the can and went back to the truck to get another one. Poured it in my thirsty tank. “What about you?”
“She’s a reporter,” said Becky with bright eyes. “In Tok …
how’d ya say it? Ya said it differ’nt.”
“Tokyo. Without any syllable in the middle.”
“Tokyo,” repeated Becky, getting her sparkle back. “Wow, I sound so chic, like I know what I’m talkin’ about.” She giggled.
“That’ll be the day,” said Adam playfully.
She whapped him with her dandelion. “As if you would know. Ya off fer today?”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“I’d invite y’all to go out to dinner, since Tim’s working late, but I don’t know if Shah-loh’s up to it.”
I desperately needed to be alone, but truthfully, I was starving. I’d skipped the church potluck, and my hollow stomach complained.
“I’m really hungry,” I admitted. “I could go.”
Adam brushed a chunk of hair back under the bill of his cap with his free hand. “Aw, look at me. I’m a mess.”
He was, actually. He had dirt all over his jeans and shirt like he’d been crawling on the ground. Stray pieces of mulch clung to his dusty work-boot laces.
“And that’s differ’nt from any other day … how?” teased Becky.
“Ha. Okay. If we go, I pick.”
“Shoot.”
“Tastee Freez. The one in Churchville.”
“Okay. If it’s good with Shiloh.”
“You like burgers and fries?” He straightened his cap. “Not my normal fare, but the best I can do dressed like this.”
A hot, identifiable, non-deep-fat-fried, un-Southern hamburger!
“Yes!” I said quickly, before they changed their minds and had me eating that awful spoon bread. “But I’ve got to stop at a gas station first.”
Becky chortled and tried to cover it with a cough. “There’s one in the same place as the Tastee Freez. It’s kinda expensive, but it’ll gitcha back into town.”
I turned the key in the ignition, and my Honda roared to life. Purred. I felt sorry for putting her in this predicament.
“Bye, horse!” I called, waving. He swished his tail and snorted, rooting for more grass as I followed Adam’s blue pickup into Churchville.
I parked next to Becky at a tiny fast-food place in “downtown” Churchville. The concept of “downtown” was hilarious because
(1) there existed no town, unless I counted a few scattered houses,
(2) there were no stop lights, and (3) Tastee Freez, along with one run-down gas station and an even more run-down grocery store advertising lima beans and beer, constituted the only franchises in Churchville.
I’d call it “in-between-the-horse-pastures-and-shops-that-have-seen-better-days,” not “downtown.”
The Tastee Freez was conveniently located right next to the local dump. I swear Kyoko would have a field day here.
For a redneck fast-food chain, though, I had to say this: Tastee Freez served up some pretty good burgers. Beautifully salted, crispy fries. I ordered root beer per Becky’s glowing recommendation, a mistake I certainly wouldn’t repeat. It tasted horrible, like bad cough syrup.
Halfway through my country-music-glossed dinner (which they both paid for) I opened my wallet to show them some Japanese yen bills, and out floated that little scrap of paper. With Faye Clatterbaugh’s phone number in perfect pen.
“I found it!” I excused myself and turned away from Becky and Adam, punching in the numbers on my international phone card. I pressed my ear closed and listened for a ring, nearly knocking over my cup in my haste. Not that spilled root beer would have been a travesty.
“Shiloh? That you?” Faye cried even before I could say her name or identify myself. “I tried and tried ta call you! I’d almostdialed the sheriff’s department to come find ya when you called just now! Lands, Shah-loh! You just took off, an’ I got so worried!”
I suddenly found my cheeseburger difficult to swallow. “Thanks.” That made no sense. But I meant it.
“I drove around awhile and tried to find ya, even went by the hotel an’ got real worried when ya didn’t show up!”
“I’m so sorry. I misplaced your number.” I picked up my cup and straw to drink then sniffed noxious root beer fumes and pushed it away.
“Where’d ya go? China?”
“Sorry.” I nibbled a fry. “I shouldn’t have. I just needed to drive.”
Becky and Adam pretended not to hear, laughing quietly over something printed on the paper-tray liner.
“Are you all right, doll?” Faye asked after a long silence.
“I’m … I’m okay. Thanks.” My voice softened. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to meet you again. Maybe we can go to Mom’s house tomorrow.”
“You bet, sugar. I’ll pick you up.”
Adam heard it and raised an eyebrow slightly, and I made a face back. As if Faye wouldn’t take the chance of letting me drive on my own.
One more thing. “I left a bite for ya ta eat at the hotel,” said
Faye. “Hope you don’t mind.”
Back at the front desk, Patty handed me two overflowing paper plates from the hotel refrigerator, loaded down with the works: barbecued chicken, baked beans, deviled eggs, potatoes with cheese, green beans, some kind of foamy pink Jell-O salad, a dinner roll, and pieces of coconut pound cake wrapped in foil.
She’d left a note: Eat up. See you tomorrow. Faye. And some plastic silverware wrapped in a napkin.
If Faye called this “a bite,” I couldn’t imagine the full spread.
Warmth crept into my shut-up heart as I carried the heavy plates, wedged in a plastic bag, to the elevator. People had brought me gas, paid for my dinner, and left a feast at my hotel room door. Why me?
It almost didn’t seem fair, like I should … I don’t know. Pay them or something. My heart stung with overflowing emotions I couldn’t place.
I peeled off my black clothes and sank into the tub, trying to forget the funeral, then hauled myself out and collapsed on the bed. Train or no train, I was going to sleep. My horrible day had finally come to an end.
My bedside telephone jangled.
I woke, disoriented, and fumbled for the clock on the bedside table. Three in the morning.
The ringing stopped, and I rolled over to sleep again. My thoughts had just fizzled into delightful darkness when this time my cell phone vibrated, rattling against the table.
I groped for the lamp in annoyance, blinking in the harsh light, and scrolled through the missed calls. Ten of them. International calls.
Huh? Of all the weird …! I rolled back through the list, not recognizing anything but the Japan prefix code. Is Carlos finally trying to call me from a phone booth or something?
I waited, but my phone sat silently. I switched off the lamp. The pillow felt so soft and fluffy compared to the thin airline cushions, cupping my cheek gently as if made out of marshmallows. Yellow ones. Marshmallow Peeps. Peeping incessantly, louder and louder. Shouting, squawking, flapping feathers.
The hotel phone on the bedside table shouted in my ear, and I woke with a start.
What on earth is going on? I flipped on the lamp again and grabbed the phone.
“Carlos?”
“No. This is Kyoko.”
“Oh, Kyoko. Hi.” I slumped back down and closed my eyes. “What a horrible day.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
She didn’t sound like her usual self. “Is something wrong?”
“Ro-chan, I don’t know. But I need to talk to you. About something important. I’m sorry. I know it’s the middle of the night there, and right after the funeral, but … this is serious. Really.”
I was suddenly awake. “What’s going on? Is everyone all right?”
“Well, health-wise, yeah. I don’t know about Carlos, but the staff is fine. But you’ve got to talk to me. Now. Before Dave calls you.”
“Dave? Why? What’s going on? Is it because my no-vote story is due? Kyoko, I’m really sorry, but I was at a funeral for crying out loud. I turned it in as soon as I could get a connection.”
“No. It’s not that.” Kyoko sounded deathly serious.
“Then what?” I felt annoyed. And sleepy.
“Ro-chan. Tell me something. Did you talk to the PM’s wife?”
All at once my heart leaped up and hit the ceiling.
Chapter 13
I couldn’t speak.
“Ro-chan. Please. Tell me you talked to her.”
I felt sick, and my mouth wouldn’t move. “Kyoko, I …”
“You didn’t. Oh no. Oh nooooo,” she moaned.
I tried to think what to say. Should I tell the truth or make up another lie? No, I’d better stop at one.
“What happened?” My hand shook so much I could barely hold the phone.
“The PM’s wife is upset. Said she never talked to you or even had an interview scheduled with you about that issue. She told AP she’d only had one interview with Asahi Shimbun, and she felt they misrepresented her position.”
My lips went white. “But she did say those things.”
“Not to you. And she can disagree all she wants with Asahi, as long as she said it. But if she didn’t talk to you, then …”
Silence.
“Kyoko, help me!” I pleaded.
“I want to, Ro, but I don’t know how I can! You goofed this one big-time! Did you really copy from Asahi?” Her voice rose shrill in my ear.
I swallowed hard and tried to stop shaking. The roomvibrated. That dumb train again. “Kyoko, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“What do you mean you didn’t mean to? Either you copied or you didn’t! It’s called plagiarism, and you can get in major trouble! You should know that by now!”
“I know. But I missed my deadline!” I gasped, needing oxygen. “I just blanked and forgot a story, and I couldn’t face Dave. I’ve never done either of those before—running late or … lifting. From the Internet. I didn’t think it would make much difference.”
Kyoko’s voice crackled with fury. “I can’t believe it! Ro, of all the dumb, stupid … honestly! What got into that head of yours? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” She was practically shouting now. “You’re studying ethics, for heaven’s sake!”
Ethics. I covered my face with my hands. “Have you ever copied a story before? Or parts of it? Tell me the truth!” Kyoko didn’t answer. I thought she would deny it immediately, but she didn’t. She didn’t?!
“Tell me the truth, Kyoko!”
“I’m at work!” she whispered fiercely.
“I don’t care! Tell me.”
“Yes,” she hissed. “Of course I have! We all have. Probably Dave has. How else do you think we turn hundreds of articles around in minutes?”
“Then why is one little incident such a big deal?” I whined.
“Because you got caught, Ro-chan! The big no-no! If you’re going to do it, do it right!”
I blinked. “That’s it? That’s my advice?”
“Look, all I’m saying is you’d better think of something really good to tell Dave. He’s ballistic. He’ll probably call you any minute.”
I rubbed my face in misery. “Is there any way out, Kyoko?”
Silence. She sounded weary. “I don’t know, Ro. This is pretty big. I don’t see how even you can dig your way out of this one.
If it goes out that an AP reporter plagiarized … oh, Ro,” she moaned. “Uh-oh. He’s coming this way. I’ve gotta go. Call me.” And she hung up.
Images swirled in my head: The glass-encased news office. Mrs. Inoue reaching handfuls of ginger candy into my cupped hands. My Louis Vuitton scarf. The mountains. The horse chewing grass. Mounds of fresh brown dirt piled around a yawning hole in summer grass.
Sensations of hot and cold swept over me. Light and heavy. My stomach heaved; I needed a doctor.
“God.” My lips moved again. Why on earth I was talking to Him, I didn’t know. “Get me out of this mess. Oh, God.” I buried my face in the blankets.
And the hotel phone rang again.
Nothing, I thought, could ruin my day more than Mom’s funeral. But Dave’s tongue-lashing sliced me to ribbons. He yelled so loudly I held the phone out from my ear. Used swear word combinations that defied grammar. Broke a mug—no, two—and something else heavy.
Dave blasted my lousy reporting skills until they bled and shouted that I had no business working at a professional establishment like the Associated Press.
“You’re fired!” I heard him holler loud enough for Patty to hear down at the front desk. “So don’t bother coming back to Shiodome!” He slammed the phone down, leaving a harsh dial tone grating in my already sore ear.
The words floated past my ears as if transparent.
I forgot time as I sat there frozen, immobile, empty phone still in my hand. My world crumbled and quaked, dissolving with a roar like one of those powerful Japanese earthquakes.
What have I done? What have I done? The dial tone whined like an annoying mosquito, yet I made no move to hang up thephone. To close the circuit connecting me to Japan and to the last remnant of my life in Shiodome.
I could live without Mom. I had already done that for years. But I could not live without Japan. Without Tokyo. Without the bright morning skies over Shiodome, the crows swooping, the friendly “Irashaimase!“ welcome greeting from smiling, bowing Japanese salespeople.
I had literally nothing left.
My head fell into my hands. Japanese samurai ritually took their lives after failure or defeat. I couldn’t imagine pulling a knife blade, but I realized as I stared at the clock, which glowed 4:16 a.m., that my life had indeed come to an end. Just like the samurai.
I thought desperate thoughts. I’d run away, or change my identity, or …
My eyes fell on the room phone, still hanging limp and pitiful in my quivering fingers.
And in complete and total despair—the wild, desperate kind that only comes from feeling your life bleed out before your eyes—I dialed Faye.
Chapter 14
She met me in the lobby, hair a fright and eyes ringed with dark circles. But she came. She wrapped her arm around me, and I followed her out to the car. She’d left a blanket for me on the passenger’s seat and a mug of hot chocolate in the cup holder. The most thoughtful things, maybe, anyone had ever done for me.
I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders, vainly trying to keep out the chill, and watched the dark city glide past me. I didn’t care where we went. Staunton, Siberia, Mars. It was all the same. Stars hung cold and condemning outside the car windows.
“Machiavelli said to do everything bad at once, and everything good slowly,” I blabbered.
“Who?”
“Machiavelli. An Italian diplomat and philosopher. Well, I followed his advice. I’ve officially ruined my life.”
In Japan Kyoko was taking the subway home from work now. Without me. Forever.
Even the mountains kept their black silence, dark shapes against the indigo sky.
Faye tried to talk, but I didn’t respond. She finally turned on a Christian radio station, and I made no move to turn it offor even protest. Just leaned against the window, watching the streetlights and wondering how on earth I’d made such a mess of my life.
Shiloh P. Jacobs didn’t need God. Didn’t need help. Shiloh P. Jacobs had always worked her way up, not down.
Staunton’s shop-lined sidewalks breathed quiet compared to Tokyo streets that never sleep. No neon, no subways. We wended our way through the country, where the air smelled pleasantly of damp leaves and soil and something indescribably sweet, like flowers. Cicadas whispered in shimmering layers, filling the air with their swelling sound.
