Southern Fried Sushi, page 7
“Lots of traffic?”
“Not a soul. Sunday noon, so everybody’s at church I guess.” I made a face.
“Are you all right? Do you need anything?”
“I’m fine, Kyoko. Really. I just need to get to the hotel and eat something and sleep. I’ll feel more … normal.” I tried to rub sleep from my eyes.
“You? Normal?” Kyoko snickered. Then her voice abruptly sobered. “The … uh … service is tomorrow?”
My grin faded. “Yeah. I’ll find out more when I get there.”
“So what’s Virginia like?”
“I have no idea. So far … flat. Lots of trees.” I peered out my windows. “And deer-crossing signs.”
“Good weather?” “Yep.”
“Hmm. Good.” Kyoko wouldn’t say it, but I could hear the worry in her voice. “You really doing all right, Ro?”
“I am. Really. And thanks for everything, Kyoko. You’ve been great. You’ve helped me so much.” Nothing would make Kyoko flee faster than heartfelt praise, but I said it anyway. Thought briefly of Hachiko the dog, perched on the edge of Shibuya station.
“Yeah, well … I’d better let you drive. Call me when you get checked in, okay?”
“Sure. Thanks again.”
“Stop thanking me. You’re getting on my nerves.” “Sorry.” I bit back a smile. “By the way, has Carlos maybe … called you? To check on me?”
“Carlos?” she snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ro. Why, you mean he hasn’t …?”
I bit my lip. “He’s probably just busy.” “Ahem. Well. Don’t get run over by any turkey trucks.” She’d actually been reading up on western Virginia. “Funny.” “I try. Well, bye.”
“Matta.” The Japanese short form for “see you,” which is different from “good-bye” (sayonara).
By the time I reached the Best Western hotel in Staunton, I could hardly move my legs. The water and ham biscuit I’d bought at the run-down, Podunk gas station just past Afton Mountain had dissipated hours ago. The one with the ticking NASCAR clock, cowboy-hatted patrons, and unintelligible saleswoman. Sheesh.
“Hi there!” said the desk clerk a little too brightly. I must have looked tired because she gave me a sympathetic look. “Long
trip?”
“From Japan.” The lobby, decorated in a country-ish pattern of florals and cranberry colors, smelled distinctly of swimming pool and coffee.
“All the way from Japan!” Her eyes popped as she took my credit card. “PATTY,” read her name tag. She really did look like a friendly Peppermint Patty from the Peanuts comic strip with her honey-brown bangs and freckles. Before long she’d start calling me “Chuck.”
“Well, what brings you here?” She pushed buttons and printed out stuff as we talked.
I winced. Why did everyone have to ask me that? “Funeral.”
“Oh dear. I’m sorry. I hope not anyone in your immediate family.”
“Well, yes, I’m afraid so.”
“I’m so sorry.” Patty finished putting together my information, using a gentler tone of voice. “Well, I hope you enjoy your stay. There’s a coffeemaker in your room, and …”
I nodded, not hearing anything. Patty handed me the key. “Is there any place to run around here?” I yawned, hoping I’d remembered to pack my tennis shoes.
“Not really.” Patty hesitated. “I guess you could follow the parking lot up to Cracker Barrel or the other way past Mrs. Rowe’s.”
“Where?”
“That red restaurant.” She pointed out the window.
“Oh.” I turned to look. “What’s their food like?”
“Lands! People come from all over just to eat there. It’s been in business since 1947. She died a few years back though. It’s a bit different, they say, but still really good.”
“She?”
“Mrs. Rowe.”
“Oh. Any recommendations?”
“Breakfast. Everybody loves the pecan rolls. And then there’s her daily specials, like fried ham and fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy.”
“Do they have anything not fried?” I tried to keep back a smile. I’d heard lots about the South. Some places even fried weird stuff, like candy bars and dill pickles, which were never meant for the deep fryer.
“‘Course they do. They’ve got the best barbecued pork sandwiches. And spoon bread and collards. And lands, the pies! My favorite’s coconut cream.”
“Spoon bread? Collards?” I didn’t understand half of what Patty just said.
Patty smiled. “You’re not from here, are you?”
“If you mean Staunton, no.” Thank goodness for that!
“Well. You’ve got to try them. And then there’s the steakhouse and a Cracker Barrel up on the hill with the best dumplings and corn muffins you’ve ever tasted.”
“Probably the only ones I’ve ever tasted.” Redneck food heaven! Here I come.
“Knock yourself out.” Patty grinned.
I wheeled my stuff up to my room, neat and decorated with similar cranberry colors, and dumped my suitcases.
This room would function as my home for the next week, so I’d better get used to it. I took off my boots at the door and pulled a pair of Japanese slippers from my suitcase. Padded into the room.
First things first. I turned past the hair-dye ticks in my notebook, which I’d intended to use to prove a point about Western influence on Asian culture, and found a fresh page.
Southern Speak, I wrote at the top. And then, “Lands!”—exclamation; “these parts”—around here, when referring to Southern localities. Then I divided a page into columns and wrote, Southern Foods: Fried and Nonfried. Not that I minded partaking of either.
Tapped my pencil against my chin, wondering how long it would take me to fill up the Fried column. Five bucks said after one dinner at Mrs. Rowe’s.
I changed into a soft little dress, one of the most comfortable things I owned, and sandals. Pinned my hair up. Lay across the bed to stretch my back and then glanced reluctantly at the clock, figuring I’d better call Faye What’s-her-name.
I reached for the phone and punched the buttons without getting up, and she answered. She called me honey, although her accent didn’t hurt my ears like the gas station lady’s where I’d bought lunch, and asked if she could meet me for dinner.
I started to say no then sighed and heard myself saying yes. Why not?
“Mrs. Whatever is next door. I’m worn out.”
“Good thinkin’, doll! I was jest gonna suggest it. I’ll bring the key to yer mom’s house, some paperwork, and other things. Unless you’d like to do all that later.”
“Maybe later.” I rubbed my eyes. “But dinner sounds good. If I can stay awake.”
“Shore, sweetie. Whenever you’re ready, jest let me know, and I’ll give ya the keys. Then you can see her house and go through her things whenever you like.”
I felt like a criminal the way she said it, like I was riffling through someone else’s pockets.
“So I’ll meet ya in the lobby in half an hour, okay, sugar? Call my cell phone if ya need anything.”
I wrote down her number and hung up. Faye seemed so sweet. A shame we had to meet over the ruins of my mom’s life, although I had an inkling she’d fill up my “Southern Speak” journal in a minute.
I guessed Faye before she introduced herself. Late fifties, I figured, with a sweet face. Glasses. Soft, sandy-gray hair curled in a shoulder-length style that made her look young. Cute. I smiled in spite of myself.
“You must be Faye. I’m Shiloh Jacobs.”
She took my hand, which I’d crisply stuck out in an overly businesslike manner, and then hugged me. I awkwardly put my hand away and hugged her back.
“I’m Faye. So pleased ta meet ya.” She looked me over then gave me a sort of shy smile, patting the side of my head. “You do look a little like yer mom. Yer pretty eyes, mainly, with all them gorgeous colors.”
“Yeah. My eyes are the only thing though. I don’t look much like either Mom or Dad.” Thankfully. I didn’t mean to think that, but it swelled up against my will. The less I had of them in my life, the better.
“Hungry?”
“Very.”
“Let’s go then. We can talk on the way.”
We fell into step side by side. Faye smelled of something sweet, like violets. A scent older than I would wear, but becoming on her. “So how do you know Mom?”
“From church.”
“Church?” I tripped over a patch in the sidewalk. “You’re kidding. Mom went to church?” I tried to cover the derision in my voice with surprise.
Faye didn’t seem to notice. “Yes, sweetie. She did. She went there for about two and a half years before she passed away.”
I cleared my throat to keep from saying something rude. “Well. That’s a surprise.”
The evening whispered soft and indigo. I didn’t need the sweater I’d brought just in case.
“Is it?” I couldn’t tell if Faye was genuinely surprised or if she wanted to ply me for more information.
“You know Mom had … well, issues, right?” My voice sounded harsh against the soft, humid evening and clumps of fragrant trees.
“I do. She went to counseling for a long, long time, so she told me, to work out some a them issues. And … well, doll, Ihave to ask ya. How much of this do ya really want to know?” Her eyes shone sober and blue.
I swallowed hard, not sure how to respond. I almost preferred to live in my make-believe world, where no information was good information. I could fill in the blanks as I pleased.
But something inside insisted, despite my misgivings.
“None of it. But I need to. I should want to. Tell me everything.”
Faye put an arm around my shoulders in a tight hug, and I didn’t pull away. “Well then, sugar, let’s talk.”
Chapter 8
Mrs. Rowe’s gleamed with red paint, barn-like and welcoming. From the sound of voices and clinking glasses, the dinner crowd had already beaten us to the tables. But we didn’t have to wait long. A young hostess seated us, looking not yet out of high school, and we picked up our menus.
“What do you recommend?” I paged through the list, hoping to find something not covered in cornmeal or lard.
“Well, I like a lot of things, sugar. This is my kinda cookin’. I like the Virginia ham with coleslaw and collards.”
“Collards again. What are those?”
“Greens. You know, cooked with ham. Ain’t you had ‘em before?”
“Nope.”
“My husband used to say they taste like grass. ‘Course he was from Montana, so what would he know? Some people like ‘em with vinegar.”
“Well, I had really salty ham for lunch, so maybe something else?”
“Fried chicken’s delicious, sweet pea, although maybe a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich would do you better after all that travelin’.” She turned over the menu. “Or broiled trout.”
Japan. Fish. Trout. “Definitely.”
“Oh, it’s delicious. If I keep thinking about, I’ll get it, too. But I want something differ’nt. Oh, and did ya know you ken get spoon bread here if they have enough?”
Now I had slurped all kinds of strange noodles in Japan and eaten sea creatures scientists probably hadn’t identified. But spoon bread? Where would that go in my “Southern Speak” journal?
“Never had it? It’s like a sorta … I dunno. Soft bread. You eat it with a spoon.”
The look on my face gave me away.
“Well, why don’t you get rolls, and I’ll get spoon bread. You can try a bit if ya like.” Faye pursed her lips. “I think I’ll go with the fried chicken. Ain’t had it in a while. Did ya choose yer vegetables?”
“I think … salad and those collard greens.” I closed my menu, still trying for a bit of adventure.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.” She winked. “Oh, and dinner’s on me.”
“Oh no. You don’t have to do that!”
“Shucks. Don’t be silly. I imagine that plane ticket wasn’t no five-dollar special, right?”
I had to smile. “Ten. With tax.”
“See? Raisin’ the rates like that. The nerve.” She gave her menu a decisive look. “What’ll you have to drink, Shiloh?”
“What’s iced tea taste like? I’ve only seen it in movies. Is it sweet?”
Faye gave me a funny look. “I thought Japanese people drank tea.”
“Well, definitely not sweet. And no ice.”
She shook her head pityingly. “Gracious. What y’all been missing!”
“I’ll try it then.”
“You won’t regret it. Oh, and don’t forget to save room for
dessert. Her pies are absolutely the best.”
It struck me as funny, and even charming, how people continued to refer to “her” as if she were alive and standing in the next room.
A waitress took our orders and brought us two tall glasses of caramel-brown tea, packed to the brim with ice. No wonder tepid-water Europeans made fun of us. In Italy you were lucky if it came room temperature.
I bobbed my head at the waitress in thanks, Japanese-style, and quickly realized no one else did that in Staunton, Virginia. Just me.
“Like yer tea?” Faye smiled across the table, not noticing my gaffe—or pretending not to.
“I do. It’s really … sweet.” But also herbal, slightly … bitter? The wedge of lemon cut the sweetness beautifully. I drank without stopping, much thirstier than I realized.
“It’s like water here. Good as anything on God’s earth.” Faye set her glass down. “So, sugar plum, let’s talk about yer mom. You seemed surprised she came ta church with me.”
“Well, yes. But then again, Mom always did try anything.” I waved it away, playing with an empty straw paper. “You just told me she went to counseling. What else do you know about her?”
Faye sighed. “She’d just had a rough time, dearie. That’s my impression. ‘Course I don’t know the whole story. I’m just sayin’ what I saw. I knew yer mom—Ellen—for about three years. She moved here some five or six years ago, I think, from North Carolina.”
I stirred my tea with my straw, feeling color creep up my face. Mom had lived in Staunton for six years, and I didn’t even know what state she lived in.
“She said she’d divorced and yer dad remarried, and ya’d gotten accepted by someplace real important and worked in Japan.” Faye unlaced her fingers and laced them again. “She’d sort of lost touch with ya over the years and felt sorry for it.”
“I can explain.” I tossed the straw paper down harshly. “I know from the outside Mom looks like this poor, mistreated soul whose family just left her. Dad was wrong, for sure. But there’s more to it than that.”
“Of course, sweetie. I know that. There’s always more than one side to ev’ry story. Ellen said it was her fault.”
I raised my head. “She did?”
“Yes. She said she only wanted to try an’ reclaim what she could. She talked about ya sometimes … how wonderful you are and how badly she’d messed up.”
“Well, she certainly did.” I snorted and looked away. “I don’t know about you, Faye, but I never had a mother growing up. And once Dad left with that Tanzania woman, I didn’t have a dad either. Not that he behaved like much of one before.
“And Mom? She was unstable—not just sad, but unstable. She cried all day and talked about suicide. Hit me sometimes. She either took depression medicine until she turned into a zombie, leaving me to take care of her, or she didn’t take it at all and went ballistic. She joined cults who swindled her out of her money and filled her head with nonsense then disappeared with them for days.”
I picked up the straw paper and twisted it so hard it snapped in half, but I didn’t stop. “She left me with drunk neighbors who tried to whip me—or worse, their creepy boyfriends who couldn’t keep their hands off me.” My cheeks flushed with anger, and I avoided Faye’s eyes. “That’s how I started sleeping at the homeless shelter because nobody would bother me.
“She couldn’t keep a job because she didn’t show up on time or just disappeared for days without calling. I just … grew up alone, raising myself and taking care of her. We got evicted all the time. I always went to bed afraid we couldn’t pay the rent and I’d have to go into a foster home or I’d come home and find her …” I dropped the straw paper and pushed it away. I’d said too much. And I was furious.
I let out my breath and tried to relax my shaking fingers, ashamed at how much I’d spouted off. What were you thinking, Shiloh P. Jacobs? I needed to be more objective. Reporter-like. The clink of glasses, light conversation, and laughter floated across the restaurant in condemnation.
Faye’s lip trembled. “I’m so sorry.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “I’m so sorry for ya, havin’ to grow up that way. It must have been awful. I can’t even imagine.”
I sipped my tea awhile before answering and forced myself to calm down. “It’s over,” I said lightly, giving a brusque shrug. “She means nothing to me.”
“So sorry.” Faye smoothed a rumpled napkin, as if wishing she could smooth my life out the same way. Well, good luck. It’s a bit late for that.
“Does what I told you about Mom surprise you?” I shook off her pity.
“Actually, no. She told me some about it.”
“She did?” My eyebrow arched skeptically. Mom always had excuses for herself.
“Not all, sugar, but a lot. Said she didn’t expect you or anybody else to come after her, but she wanted ta try an’ make something of her life while she still could.”
Hence the boxes and occasional letters she’d sent me. The weird pecan pie. As if they were supposed to make everything better. Make me forgive her. Sorry, Mom. I’m no sucker.
“Where did she work?” I changed the subject abruptly.
“At the Virginia—”
“—School for the Deaf and Blind. I knew it.”
“She told you?”
“No. I guessed. She always talked about her younger brother, Billy, and I just put two and two together. Why else would anyone come to Staunton?”
I clapped my hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …” What had I meant? “Really. No offense, please, Faye.
