Southern Fried Sushi, page 18
“Thatnsagudn,” the man said, winking at me. Adam reddened and nodded politely.
“What did he say?” I asked impatiently as we headed for the door. “Why doesn’t he speak English?”
“He was speaking English.” He held the door for me.
“Well, not any kind of English I’ve ever heard. Can you translate?”
He hesitated and fumbled with his keys in embarrassment. “Nothing important.”
“Yes he did, too! What did he say?”
“He said, ‘That one’s a good one.’ Meaning you.”
“Me?” I looked accusingly back over my shoulder. “He doesn’t even know me!”
“I know.”
“Then why did he say it?”
“I guess there are things every Southern man looks for in a woman he can respect.”
I rolled my eyes. “I bet I can guess what they are.”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Forget it.” He strode across the gravel and opened the truck door for me.
“No,” I insisted, annoyed. “Tell me!”
Adam ignored me, and I stopped in the middle of the parking lot. “Tell me! I’m waiting.”
He turned to look at me. “You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“He saw you pray.”
“Pray?”
“Yes, pray. It’s important to find a good woman who loves God. That’s more attractive than any pretty face.”
I harrumphed. Like I believe that! “Anything else?”
“You’re dressed like a lady. And not a streetwalker.”
It was my turn to blush. “It’s just a dress.”
“Well, a man wants a woman who saves a little something for later, if you know what I mean. Some girls let it all hang out or come right up to the edge. It’s not attractive. At least not around here.”
“So all a woman has to do is wear a dress to catch a man in these parts?” I asked sarcastically, unfolding my arms and climbing up into the truck. “She can be dumb as a rock, but look pretty?”
“I didn’t say that. Southern men aren’t scared of a smart woman. In fact, she’s a real catch. But they want her to be a woman.”
“And wear a dress.”
Adam looked annoyed. “I didn’t say that either. You just asked what the man said, and I told you. It’s a plus to dress decently. That’s all.”
I couldn’t believe my Yankee ears. “Now don’t try to sound all high and mighty, Adam Carter!” I snapped back. “If a woman walked into that diner in a miniskirt, every man in the place would bug his eyes out.”
“You’re probably right. But they’d never respect her.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“They’d consider her a cheap item, like a Wal-Mart clearance special. ‘A piece a work,’ they’d say. But nobody wants a piece a work for the mother of his children and the woman he loves.”
“I can’t believe you!” Adam Carter, a landscaper, lecturing me on how to dress in the South and talking about women having children. I saw red. Of all the backwoods, ignorant, chauvinistic, sexist …
I grabbed for my seat belt, still steaming. “Is that all?”
He closed my door and got in on his side. Didn’t answer.
“There’s more and you’re just not telling me. Go on! Spill it!”
Adam buckled his seat belt and leaned back in his seat, looking hard at me. “Why do you want to know if you hate it so much?”
“No reason.” So I can know what kind of redneck creeps I have to deal with! “Just tell me.”
“Fine.” He started the truck. “You let me pay for your lunch and open the door for you.”
“And that’s supposed to mean something?” I crossed my arms.
“It means you’re not a man-hating feminist.” He glanced at my scowl. “Although I could be wrong.”
I turned up my nose. “As if you would know.”
“Southern men appreciate women who aren’t too frilly,” he said as if he hadn’t heard me.
“I promise you, I’m frilly!” I snapped back. “Just because I’m not wearing heels today doesn’t make me a Betty Sue or Daisy Mae or whatever her name is. I’m definitely frilly!”
“No you’re not.”
“Yes I am!”
“No you’re not. You ate two hot dogs on a bar stool, without worrying about your lipstick, and you still have mustard on your chin.” His mouth curved into a self-satisfied smirk. “You asked. Not me.”
I cried out and pulled down the visor, finding the spot in the mirror and angrily wiping it off.
“And now you’re going fishing.”
“Fishing?” I retorted indignantly. “Who said I wanted to go fishing?”
Adam didn’t answer. Kept on driving. Turned the music back on. Pulled into a gas station to get gas.
“Why don’t you wear cowboy boots if you’re such a Southern man?” I shot back as he took the keys out of the ignition.
“I’m not a cowboy,” he said. And disappeared with a slam of the truck door.
And to my fury, it made perfect sense.
Adam came back out of the gas station with a paper bag, which he put on the seat between us.
I was still steaming. “Those better not be live worms. I’m not putting a worm on a hook, and that’s final.”
“They’re not worms.”
We didn’t say anything more until he pulled up to the entrance of what looked like a national park. It stretched out green and tree-ful, with a few cars parked at the entrance. Adam dug two fishing poles out of the back of his truck, plus a tackle box, and I reluctantly carried the paper bag. Cold condensation on the sides told me there were drinks inside. Probably not beer, knowing the king of temperance.
We wended our way through a lush, meadowy area with picnic tables, and Adam set his stuff down on one of them. At least the picnic table was clean enough not to ruin my dress.
I couldn’t say as much for the lake.
Squirrels chattered in the oak trees overhead, which groaned and swayed in the breeze. Everything smelled fresh, like it had just been washed, and the heat stuck my formerly cooperative bangs to my forehead.
Adam opened the bag and took out two frosty bottles. “A redneck meal isn’t complete without processed soda laced with chemicals.”
“Thanks for ruining my appetite.” I pulled my hair to the side to cool my sweaty neck.
A cold Coke did sound good though, after those two spicy chili dogs. Sort of like pairing wine and cheese. Maybe we could have a redneck version? With Tang and grits? Or root beer and potted meat stuff in a can?
Adam opened the bag one last time and tossed two more things onto the picnic table. My vision blurred.
It’s not … oh no. It’s not possible. I paled, looking at the two round circles shining in clear plastic.
No, God, noooo…. Anything but that! Please!
“It’s one of the redneck food groups,” said Adam as he folded up the paper bag. But I barely heard him.
He put one of the silver disks in my hand, and I dropped it like a cup of scorching green tea—not believing what I saw. It can’t be the same one. The same one! Even the same brand!
And then without warning, I, Shiloh P. Jacobs, burst into tears—right in front of Adam Carter, landscaper, and two fishing poles, in the middle of Nowhere, Virginia.
Chapter 25
When it rains, it pours like Japan during monsoon season.
I sobbed for three or four minutes without stopping, barely coming up for air when Adam, horrified, thrust me all the napkins in the bag, one by one. I used them up as fast as he gave them.
He paced anxiously, jaw hanging open, running his hand through his hair in absolute disbelief.
“Are you all right?” he asked over and over, until I tuned him out. “What’s wrong?”
I didn’t answer him. Just kept on crying, making little tear puddles on the wooden picnic table. The last time I’d cried I was seven, so I wasn’t very good at it. I mopped my face with soggy napkins.
I saw Adam get out his cell phone and think of who to call then dialed Becky, but nobody answered. Left a muffled message for Faye that I couldn’t hear.
I finally hiccupped and tried to talk through my sobs, but nothing intelligible came out.
Adam stood there stupidly then opened my can of Coke and slid it across the table. I took a few swigs. The cold, crisp fizz
helped. I caught my breath and mopped my face some more.
“What happened?” he demanded, mutating back to broken-record form again. “Are you all right?”
“Mom,” I finally managed, sponging my cheeks and wiping where my mascara had run. I couldn’t even imagine what a fright I looked like now.
Adam stared at the pecan pie I clutched and then at me, obviously trying hard to understand. “Did she … uh … like these or something?”
I nodded and burst into tears again.
“I’m so sorry, Shiloh. I had no idea.” He ran his hand through his hair again, looking terrified. “Really. I should have asked you first.”
I shook my head no, still bawling.
“I shouldn’t have brought you out here.” Adam stood there, white-faced. “I just felt sad for you, with your world all turned upside down, and I wanted to give you a break from—”
“No. It’s not that.” I glanced at the pie again, tearing up. “It’s just that Mom …”
Adam pressed the Coke into my free hand, and I swallowed. Then took a long breath. Another swallow. Felt my senses coming back to me.
He passed me another napkin, and I turned my head and delicately blew my nose. Crying is awful for a woman’s appearance, Southern or otherwise. I drew in a shuddering breath.
He sat down on the bench and waited. “I thought you didn’t … I mean you and your mom weren’t …” Raised his hands in desperation.
“Close?” I sponged my nose.
He hesitated.
“It’s okay. You can say it,” I snapped, wiping my wet cheek. “We weren’t.”
I knew he’d look up at me in sheer confusion. I was confused, for goodness’ sake.
So between sniffles I blurted out a little about the cults, the hungry school days, the nights not knowing when she’d come home. Dad and Tanzania. The boxes she’d sent me in Japan, and the pecan pie I’d pegged up on my corkboard.
“I can’t ever forgive her,” I said, dabbing at my nose. “Not that she matters to me anyway.”
His tone softened. “Well, she obviously does.”
“She shouldn’t.” I tossed down my balled-up napkin.
Adam sat intently, thinking, jaw cupped in his two hands.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“Stop apologizing,” I snapped. “It’s not your fault.”
A look I couldn’t place passed across his face. “No, I mean I’m sorry for you. I didn’t know you’d been through so much.”
“I know. And now my life is over.”
He shook his head, looking up at me. “You keep saying that, Shiloh. But you’re wrong. It’s not.”
“Of course it is.” I rubbed my swollen eyes. “I’ve lost my job. Lost Mom. Lost everything.”
He picked up the pecan pie. “The way I see it, you have a new start.”
“What? Here?” I teared up again.
Adam pursed his lips. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Did you ever taste the one your mom sent?”
I shook my head.
“I think if you open up to this new life, and all that God’s doing in it, you might be surprised.”
I sniffled. Adam opened the pie for me and took off the wrapper. Tipped it so it fell out of the little metal pan (which I had to admit was pretty ingenious—almost as clever as the Japanese onigiri rice triangle wrappers). Put it back in my hand.
I blinked wet lashes at him then at it. “Go on,” he said. “It’s your second chance. Take a bite.”
“Isn’t it full of … you know … formaldehyde and stuff?”
Adam sighed and rubbed his forehead in irritation. “You have the weirdest ideas.”
“You never know. Have you ever read the ingredient list?” I took a reluctant sniff of the pie. It actually smelled good. Sugary, like vanilla or caramel.
“Have you?” He thrust the wrapper at me. “Last time I checked, flour and sugar weren’t anything to report to the Bureau of Public Health.”
I took a bite. Chewed. Tasted buttery crust, some kind of crunchy nut, and a wonderfully sweet goo. Took another bite. Funny, it was gourmet, in a trailer-trash sort of way: the salty crust balancing the sweet filling. I liked it even better than the hot dog.
No wonder Mom had sent it to me. It encompassed her life. Simple but sweet, made with ordinary, day-to-day stuff. Flour. Molasses. Pecans that thrive in the warm sun. Nothing fancy. But together it becomes a little poem of contrasts: crisp and soft, dark and light, making something entirely new. And she’d wanted to share it with me.
Adam was beaming. I tried to smile back through my tears, and he opened his Coke and pecan pie and ate with me. Two rednecks sitting on a picnic table strewn with fishing poles and a tackle box, eating snack food from a gas station. If only Kyoko could see me now.
If only Mom could see me now.
“How do you like it?”
He didn’t need to ask. He could see it on my face, but I answered anyway.
“I love it.” I sniffled, taking another crumbly bite. “I wish …”
“Wish what?”
I shuffled my feet and looked down at the wrapper. “I don’t know. Maybe that I’d been able to … to tell her.” Not just about her food but about her life. Her mistakes. Her victories. To call her now and then and hear about her job. To listen. To care. To try again.
Tears streamed down my cheeks again and dripped off my chin, and I dug in my purse for a tissue.
“You are telling her now.”
“How?”
“By going forward. Trying new things. Looking at the world she loved and giving it a chance. Giving yourself a chance to make mistakes. And get up again. Like she did.”
He lifted his eyes to the oak trees, all golden-shiny and bright in the summer heat, and so did I. Listened to them rush and swish in my ears. Looked through the leaves to the turquoise sparkles of sky, and further, wondering if I could open my heart to God.
I put the pie wrapper in the bag and patted a fishing pole. “We’re really going fishing?”
“If you’re up to it. You don’t have to, you know.”
“No, I’m up to it.” I finished the last of my pie and picked up my Coke bottle. “Just no live worms.”
Adam kept his word. He got out rubber lures, the color of greenish motor oil and sparkly. We sat on the grassy banks of the lake, our lines sinking into the mirror-blue depths with barely a stir. Other fishermen lolled in shady areas, laughing about bait and football and hunting. Far out on the shimmery plane I saw a canoe, floating like a leaf on a puddle.
I watched rings on the water spread wider and wider, disappearing, like the walls of my heart slowly expanding. Adam told me about his older brother, Rick, about the daily rituals of medicines and bandages and physical therapy. About Rick’s anger and loss and faith that ebbed and flowed from a wounded heart.
Adam rested his chin in his hand and seemed to drift far away, and I let my mind lose itself among the clouds slipping slowly by, reflected in the upturned water.
We walked down a creaky wooden dock, water lapping at the posts, and I sat and dangled my feet in cool water. Forgot the restof the world. Wiggled my toes and laughed as tiny, glistening minnows tickled them with curious mouths.
When Adam dropped me off in the late afternoon with a couple of pathetic-looking little fish, I didn’t gripe like I’d planned to. I thanked him and took my cold grits bowl and spoon then chucked the fish in the freezer.
I sat in the rope swing and dangled my feet on the grass, not quite ready to bid the summer day good-bye. I watched the mountains turn blue-violet like a Japanese iris. Fireflies sparkled in the dusky twilight under spreading trees, enjoying the reprieve from the hot sun.
The sermon never came. All afternoon I’d braced myself for the big “God Talk” I was sure Adam would give me, and instead we went fishing. I had fun. My heart was full, and I felt clean. Healed.
And I was baffled, just like after eating hamburgers at Becky’s.
What is it? What’s the secret? What am I missing?
I was still thinking when the offending smell of tobacco smoke invaded my thoughts.
Chapter 26
I swiveled on the swing, half expecting to see Kyoko puffing her Mild Sevens. Instead, at the edge of Mom’s property emerged a hefty woman in a housedress, mostly identifiable in the murky twilight by the glowing orange tip of her cigarette. Her white-vinyled house, exactly the same shape as Mom’s, stood almost within throwing distance. Next to the largest satellite dish I’d ever seen.
“Hiya.” She fumbled in her pockets with embarrassment. “Ya must be Ellen’s girl.”
It took me a minute to understand her thick accent, compounded by her puffing. I scooted off the swing.
“I’m Stella Farmer. Her next-door neighbor.” She held out a ham-like hand and shook mine firmly.
“Shiloh Jacobs. From Japan.”
I waved her smoke away as politely as possible, trying to place where I’d seen her before. The funeral. The big-haired woman crying into a handkerchief.
“Shiloh?” laughed Stella. “I fergot Ellen named ya after a battlefield.” She shook with laughter and took another puff. “Don’t she know the Yankees won that’n?”
Ice slipped into my gaze, and I nearly forgot all my nice manners with Adam.
“That battlefield was actually named after a city in Israel,” I replied in clipped tones. “My mom referred to the city.”
“I’m shore she did.” Stella suddenly grabbed me in a tight hug and kissed my cheek, smelling like cigarettes and hairspray. And then she teared up, lips wobbling. “I’m so sorry about yer mama. She …”
I stood there listening to Stella cry then awkwardly put an arm around her shuddering shoulders. Walked her over to the porch steps and sat down.
