Southern Fried Sushi, page 16
Crickets hummed in gentle waves, pulsating through the dark trees and faraway hills. An enchanting sound, almost hypnotic.
“I envy you,” I finally said softly. “I don’t know how I want to live anymore.”
“Of course not. Your life has been turned on its head, and it’ll take time to sort things out.”
“Time. Yeah, maybe.” I played with a blade of grass by my foot, feeling bitter. “But I wonder if time will really fix things. I’ve made a big mess of my life, and sometimes there’s no going back.”
“There might not be any going back, but there’s always going forward. Don’t forget that. We’ve all made mistakes.”
“You’ve never been fired, have you?” I snapped back, a little more harshly than I intended.
“No.”
“Well, have you ever lost a girlfriend then? If that’s not too personal?”
“Yes, I have.”
I didn’t know what to say. I’d expected him to say no, saintly soul he appeared to be.
“I’ve gone through a lot of things. We all have. Tim, Becky, Faye, everyone. That’s life.”
I snorted. “Everybody keeps saying how they’ve suffered, but you all are still smiling! If it was bad enough, you wouldn’t.”
Adam shook his head. “No, Shiloh. I don’t think that’s true. We have plenty of reasons to smile every single day. The sun, food, friends, the seasons, the earth … and most of all, Jesus. God gives us far more than we deserve.”
Missionary! I fumed, running my fingers through the moist grass. “I don’t think so.”
He pressed his lips together. “I’m sorry to hear it. But that doesn’t change the fact that Jesus loves you and died for you.”
He said it so simply, so honestly, I didn’t even have time to retort. I wished I could believe in something with all my heart, the way I did with Faye over coffee. But I couldn’t.
“If He does, He sure has a funny way of showing it.”
Adam leaned back on his hands. “It might seem like it sometimes, I guess. But I never thought of it that way. Even in our hardest times, we know He’s there, working everything out for our good.”
“I know about your brother,” I blurted a little too abruptly. “Becky told me. I’m sorry he lost his legs.”
Adam blinked, obviously stunned. “Uh … thanks. But I wasn’t talking about Rick. I was talking about Becky.”
I jerked my head up. “Becky? Why? She has a perfect life! A husband and mother-in-law who love her, good friends, living in the same place she grew up. Soon she’ll have a houseful of kids and everything she ever wanted,” I grumbled, stabbed with unexpected jealousy.
Jealousy toward Becky Donaldson—who still curled her bangs with a curling iron. I was pathetic.
Adam’s eyes were luminous. “Becky can’t have kids,” he said hoarsely.
Chapter 22
I must’ve heard wrong. “Sorry? What?”
“Becky has some … problem. She can’t have kids, and nobody really knows why. They’ve been trying for four years, and she’s tried in vitro for free, mainly because a rich doctor felt sorry for her. She told Becky if it didn’t ‘take’ the third time, she’d have to give up. But Becky keeps believing for a miracle.”
My mouth fell open. “Has she done it the third time?”
“Yes.” He swallowed hard. “All her tests and readings are showing up the same, regardless of all the shots and things.” Adam ran his hand through his hair sadly and looked away. “They signed up for adoption years ago, but it hasn’t worked out yet either.”
I dropped the piece of grass in my hand, flabbergasted. Thought of Becky bounding down the stairs at her little brick house, flashing her bright, naive smile. How she talked about children in the parking lot of Jerusalem Chapel. She’d even tried to convince me to have kids, for goodness’ sake! And tomorrow she’d feed Cheerios to other people’s kids while they enjoyed the couples’ service.
I hung my head. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“Don’t tell her I told you. I think it’s best if she tells you herself. But I wanted you to know.”
I nodded, resentment washing over me. Everything in Staunton was wrong—death, dying, problems. Even Becky, the friendliest girl I’d met, lived her own sad nightmare, and I couldn’t do a thing about it. I was stuck in the spiderweb with them.
“I hate this town,” I finally whispered, kicking the lawn.
Adam looked up. “What? Why?”
“I’ve seen nothing but trouble in Staunton. Everybody’s sick or dying or struggling with something. It’s not normal! They must have done nuclear testing here in the ‘50s or something.” Anger pumped through my veins, and I threw the handful of grass I’d picked out into the yard.
“What are you talking about? You’ve only been here a few days.”
“Five. Enough to recognize a giant redneck pit when I see one. Before the day’s over I’ll probably sprout buckteeth and a gut, and tomorrow I’ll be dead of high cholesterol from that hominy stuff!”
Dead. I actually said the word, sitting on Mom’s front porch. I rolled my forehead in my hand.
Adam obviously missed my gaffe. He laughed out loud, which only made me madder. “Hominy doesn’t have cholesterol, Shiloh. It’s corn.”
“Yeah, soaked in lye! Try soaking our pizza in lye and see what happens! Maybe that’s why everybody’s so weird and backward. Bible thumpers and racists!” I waved my arms. “I’m going crazy here surrounded by weirdos! Nobody has any brains!”
A too-long silence. “You think everybody around here is weird and backward?”
“Are you kidding? People don’t even know how to conjugate proper verbs, Adam! They watch cars go in circles for hours! If anybody actually made sushi in Staunton, they’d use squirrels or—what did you call them … starlings?—shot out of their front
yard. Everybody’s nuts! Every single person.”
I started to hurl another insult about dumb Southerners then abruptly shut up. My mouth had run away again, leaving me in a hazy stupor of anger and grief. But nothing really mattered anymore. Things couldn’t possibly get any worse.
“Now that’s not fair,” said Adam, a hint of coldness in his voice.
“No? Well, that’s what I see. And did the KKK run all the African-Americans out of town?”
“You haven’t been here long enough to see anything!” Adam retorted, arms crossed in the darkness. “Yes, there are racist people in the South. But it’s a sin, Shiloh, that God will judge. It’s one hundred percent wrong, and those who know God know it. No one can love God and hate his brother. The Bible says so.”
“The Bible.” I rolled my eyes.
He didn’t take my bait. “And a lot of those people who go around calling themselves Christians are liars. Fakers who use the Bible to accomplish their twisted agenda. Don’t judge everybody by the sins of a few.”
“As if that makes things any better!” I faced him, gripping the porch with white knuckles. “I can’t find one redeeming quality around here. Greasy food, run-down shacks, and too many bugs!” I swatted violently at one buzzing near my head. “Ignorant people who want nothing better in life except working at dead-end jobs and mental institutions! No wonder my mom lived in Staunton. She was in her element!”
My cheeks flushed. I buried my face in shaking hands, hearing my heart pump angry blood past my ears. My breath shuddered.
Even in the moonlight, I could see Adam’s gaze chill. “That’s what you really think about everybody?”
“Yes, and a lot more.”
“Well.” He stood up and put his wallet in his pocket. “Good night then, Shiloh.”
And with that, he picked up his tools leaning against the
pillar and got in his truck and left.
I watched his truck pull out of the driveway like I’d watched my dad’s retreating back. Mute, powerless to speak or call him back. I was frozen, a stone.
The taillights disappeared. I sat on the porch for a long time, devastated at what I’d done. I didn’t mean it. I really didn’t. What on earth got into you? Honestly! You need help!
I’d just insulted one of the only friends I had in the city, after he’d bought us all dinner and helped me move into Mom’s house. He’d trimmed my hedges and mulched my plants. Told me how often to water my roses and promised to bring more plants.
And here I sat, under the condemning gaze of Mama Bird. Even she saw what a heel I’d been.
Shiloh P. Jacobs found her roots all right. A chip off the crabby old block.
I guess some things never change.
The dew suddenly felt cold, and I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering. I was lonely and tired beyond words. I longed to call someone, but there was no one to call.
I walked back into the empty house, locking the door behind me. Threw myself on the newly made bed in the spare bedroom, not even bothering to undress, and wrapped the thin blanket around me for comfort. Scrunched my eyes closed, wishing I could wake—by some miracle—to the sun-smoggy haze of Shiodome’s brightness.
A rattling blast echoed outside my bedroom window. I threw off the blanket and fumbled for my cell phone, forgetting I could only reach Kyoko with it, or, heaven forbid, our editor Dave.
I imagined a crazed Appalachian farmer, like the American Gothic painting, at my front door waving his pitchfork.
Then the rumble of a car engine faded, complete with horn blasting the first notes of “Dixie.” And another smaller backfire as it careened down the road. Drunken idiots!
I slowly released the cell phone, heart pounding, and plopped back on the bed.
You’re not in Tokyo anymore, Toto! I scrunched angrily in a ball. You’re in Churchville! The only gunshots I’d probably hear would be aimed at birds or badgers or something.
Stillness returned, and I tried to relax. Pressed my nose to the blankets to find any trace of Mom’s scent. They smelled like her, as did the whole house: soft and floral, like fabric softener. She wore Avon perfume. On her good days, with her light brown hair pulled up and amethyst earrings dangling, I’d even thought she looked pretty.
Forget sleep. I balled up the blanket and marched down the hall to the living room. Flipped on the TV, blinking in the bright blue glow, and watched a silly British comedy on PBS. But I couldn’t laugh. Couldn’t even smile.
Everything, from the carpet to the wallpaper to the pictures on the wall, reminded me of Mom. The whole house breathed her; unfamiliar and strange, yet vaguely comforting.
I stared at the flickering screen and tried to blot out the emotions that materialized without warning, like clouds over the moon.
I slept on the sofa, blanket wrapped around me like a cocoon, and woke only when early morning thunder rattled the windows. I felt leaden, zombie-like. Didn’t even put on fresh clothes. Just padded around in my house slippers, hair a mess.
The thought of seeing the rest of the house sickened me. It belonged to Mom, not me—no matter what the lawyer’s papers said.
I was intruding on a stranger. Because that’s what she was to me.
I considered calling Adam to apologize. If he couldn’t forgive me, at least I could thank him and say good-bye civilly. I stared at my cell phone for twenty minutes rehearsing my speech with the international card in my hand.
Pressed the buttons, and … nothing. Not even a dial tone. I dialed Faye in a panic, but again, nothing.
They’ve disconnected my service. My last bill in Japan … I probably hadn’t paid it.
I shut my cell phone and dialed Adam from the house phone. Stood there stupidly, cord dangling, waiting for him to pick up before I realized it, too, had no dial tone.
The Internet. They’re probably connected to the same plan. Maybe …
I rushed into the library, trying not to look at the Mom-world of books or the icons splashed across her screen as I jiggled the mouse, computer groaning to life. The clunker of a computer obviously still worked, although her waterfall-Bible-verse wallpaper stopped me in my slippers. Wouldn’t spaceships landing in Arizona be more appropriate?
There. The blue Internet icon. I reached for it, poised to click.
AP. The PM’s wife. Forty-five minutes. “Did you get Schwartz to edit this? Because I’m not wasting any more time doing it myself!”
I dropped the mouse like a hot Japanese sweet potato.
Chapter 23
I switched off the computer and stormed out of the room, a lump forming in my throat. A little Internet icon had ruined my entire life.
No, you ruined your entire life, Shiloh P. Jacobs!
I didn’t even need to click, thanks to the red bar across the bottom of the screen before I shut it down. Internet disconnected. Last night’s brief phone call with Adam had been the last gasp.
At least the electricity and water still worked. Then again, who really cared anyway?
A chill settled over the house. I grabbed another blanket and put on socks. Poured a bowl of cereal and slumped at the table, watching tree branches shiver in the stormy breeze. Normally a good run, even in the rain, would have pumped some life and cheer into my heart. But not today. I left my gym clothes and tennis shoes in the suitcase.
If I’d ever felt hopeless in my life, it was now. I was cold, exhausted, and utterly drained. It could have been ten in the morning or ten at night. I had no idea. And I could care less.
Sunday rolled in blearier than Saturday, shrouded in coldgrayness. All the green that had enchanted me before seemed soggy, dark, and mute, as if it had fled with the sun.
Stifling memories suffocated me, and I abruptly picked up Mom’s car keys and slogged out to the car.
Sat there in the driveway, looking out at the drizzly morning and inhaling the sweet berry smell of Mom’s car air freshener. Not a single crumb littered her super-clean carpet. A Virginia School for the Deaf and Blind cup sat suspended in the cup holder, as if caught in time. A sweater and manila folder of student work on the passenger seat.
I reached out unconsciously to touch them, to hold what Mom had loved, but I couldn’t. I drew back. Turned on the car and backed out of the driveway.
I reminded myself not to do anything stupid like I’d done at Jerusalem Chapel. After all, I couldn’t call Adam now. But I needed to get away.
The streets shined rainy and empty, and warm, yellow-lighted windows gleamed back at me across the gloom. All the houses in Crawford Manor looked pretty much the same, save different paint and shingle colors: blocky, quaint, country-cute. Wooden shutters. Trimmed shrubs. Front porches. American flags.
Some houses had been dolled up nicely with expensive grass and dark brown mulch. Others, sporting dilapidated siding and old car parts, looked like they harbored criminals. One was painted …
Purple?! I braked, staring in disbelief as rain poured outside.
I thanked my lucky stars I wouldn’t live in Crawford Manor long. Especially when I spotted an actual PINK FLAMINGO stuck in one yard—no, make that two—along with random tufts of faded plastic flowers in unnatural colors like turquoise blue and bright red and a couple of plastic chipmunks.
If I’d had my head about me, I would have snapped some pictures for Kyoko. But today it just made me more depressed.
I slushed my tires out of Crawford Manor and sat at theintersection, not knowing which way to go. Turned right. And passed, after a parting of trees, a neat little country church crowded with cars.
Right. Today’s Sunday. Faye had invited me to church.
Loneliness came so strongly I actually considered going just to see some fresh faces and smiles, but then looked down at my rumpled clothes and changed my mind. Drifted past the church and rainy hills. Gazed at the houses and long brick high school appearing on my left. Counted cows munching soggy grass.
The road forked. I glimpsed, through wiper blades, the redneck-est gas station on earth, and signs for other towns pointing down desolate roads toward the mountains.
Nothing else. I turned the car around in the gas station and headed back, marooned on a lifeless planet.
I found myself pulling into the church parking lot and just sat there on the gravel, not sure why I’d come. Just like the time I found myself in front of Mrs. Inoue’s shop in my house slippers.
A lump tightened in my throat as I remembered Mrs. Inoue and her wrinkled hands. Her ginger candy. I never got to say good-bye. I squeezed the steering wheel as if to crush out the memories. Mom had found peace in church; perhaps in some small measure I could, too.
Under the pines the rain had mostly stopped, save a few random spatters and taps on the windshield and roof. A soft mist settled. I rolled down the window to breathe in fresh air then froze, hand on the button.
The sound of singing.
I listened, both awed and amused by the melody rising and falling from the quaint white-and-brick chapel. I’d stood on the sidewalk in Shibuya and heard voices and someone banging on a piano and felt contempt for white men bringing their religion to an Asian people who did very well, thank you, without it.
But try as I might, I could never shake the sense of reverence and even wonder that swelled when I heard voices lifted inworship. Buddhist priests chanted in cold, dark, ancient Japanese temples, but they did not sing. At least not like the Christians I’d heard. Those Jesus freaks seemed alive, if not slightly out of touch with reality. But still they sang.
A raindrop from a pinecone splattered on the windshield in a flurry of silver, as if to shatter my prejudices.
On Monday morning the clouds broke up, and I felt like Cro-Magnon woman stepping out of her cave. I opened the windows, pulled back the curtains, even opened the doors. A fresh breeze poured through the house and open screen doors, echoing blue sky and bright sun.
My reflection in the bathroom mirror frightened me: hair unwashed, face pallid and depressed. I’d eaten all the cereal over the weekend (it served double-duty for breakfast and lunch).
I pulled on gym clothes and jogged around the neighborhood in early morning white-gold sun, heat already beginning to swelter, letting my thoughts ease with the joyful pounding of my heart. By the time I got back, a small measure of sanity had crept back into my panting skull.
