Simple Simon

by William Poe

  As I waited, my descent into despair escalated. I expected, at any moment, for God’s representative on earth to realize that I was an imposter.

  Then Father pointed to a Japanese woman. When the nearby sisters nudged her, she looked completely shocked. Slowly, she made her way through the crowd to stand beside me.

  The disparity in height was the first thing I noticed. Looking down, I only saw the top of her head. We walked toward the private room, a closet-like space with two chairs facing each other. The sister and I sat in awkward silence.

  “I’m Simon Powell,” I said, breaking the ice.

  “Fujimoto Masako,” the sister replied, introducing herself in the Asian manner, putting last name first.

  Masako looked me square in the eyes. They were big eyes, set in a pixy face that seemed almost boyish. Leave it to Father to pick a sister who probably was a tomboy growing up.

  “Do you accept the matching?” I asked. It was to the point, but I had not noticed members spending much time together before coming out to bow.

  “You are commander. I just sister named Masako. I accept Father’s choice.”

  “I’m happy to meet you, Masako.”

  “Really? Maybe I disappoint.”

  Masako’s candor disarmed me. “I might be the one who disappoints,” I said, being more honest than she could have realized.

  Masako shrugged in a way that reminded me of my own attitude: Just let it happen.

  We returned to the ballroom and bowed, then passed through the gauntlet of staff members processing newly matched couples. Someone took Polaroid images of us sitting on plain wooden chairs in front of a screen decorated at the top with the church symbol supported by a pair of pheasants. One of the Polaroid pictures went into a personnel file. Masako and I each received one to keep. Another person handed us three-by-five note cards so we could write down our names and addresses. The fear in everyone’s mind was that matched couples would separate and not be able to recognize each other later.

  A staff member directed us toward the main lobby, where dozens of brothers and sisters offered their congratulations. Members who knew me worked through the crowd to introduce their betrothed and to see whom Father had selected for me.

  “Why don’t we get out of here?” I said to Masako. I could see that the attention made her uncomfortable.

  We walked a few blocks to the nearby diner. Masako slowly sipped hot chocolate, closing her eyes to savor the taste. I liked her, but couldn’t put my finger on the reason. Maybe it was the slightly masculine air beneath her simple femininity; perhaps it was her no-nonsense attitude.

  “Where did you live in Japan?” I asked. It was a terribly mundane question, but I had to ask something.

  Masako held the ceramic mug tightly with both hands and took another sip. “I live Sapporo,” she said. “You know where Sapporo?”

  “Hokkaido, desu ne?”

  Masako giggled. “You sound little boy. Please, no speak Japanese.” She covered her mouth to conceal her amusement. “Your voice, so cute.”

  “Okay. No Japanese. But I am right, aren’t I? Sapporo is on Hokkaido, the northern island?”

  “Sure,” Masako said. “North, very cold. We have snow monkey. They like sauna bath.”

  “Maybe I’m a snow monkey. I like saunas.”

  Masako set down the cumbersome mug and reached across the table to touch my face. “Not enough whisker.”

  I blushed as Masako stroked my cheek with the palm of her hand and then brushed her fingertips across my lower lip.

  “You’re very forward,” I said, smiling.

  Masako didn’t understand my turn of phrase, but caught the meaning well enough.

  “You will be husband,” she said. “I want to know what feel like.”

  “So, what do I feel like?”

  Masako placed an index finger on her chin to exaggerate her deliberation. “I think, Simon Powell, he feel like little boy.”

  “Again with the little boy. First I talk like one; now I feel like one.”

  “Husband and boy. Someday, maybe man, too.”

  “That’s certainly an oblique statement,” I said.

  “Not know fancy words,” Masako pouted. “You make fun of me.” She turned away in mock rejection.

  I reached across the table with a consoling touch to her cheek. I had hoped for an erotic charge, but Masako’s face felt almost prepubescent, so different from the manly texture that aroused me when I’d put my face against David’s.

  “You have freckles,” I observed, desperate to stop thinking about what aroused me and what didn’t. “I’ve never seen a Japanese sister with freckles.”

  Masako gently pushed my hand aside, unsure how to take my shift from touching her cheek to pointing out what she clearly perceived as a personal defect.

  “Maybe ancestor not Japanese. Maybe Ainu.”

  “Now you’re using a fancy word,” I said. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Ainu original Japanese, live in north, like Hokkaido. They light skin, sometime freckle.”

  “Now I understand. So, what would you like to know about me?”

  “I know plenty enough. You Mitsui’s pet. Everyone say that.”

  I choked on my sip of coffee. “Pet? Is that what people say?”

  “Sure. At least, that what Japanese member say. But it okay, Simon-san. Either you Mitsui pet or you Mitsui enemy.”

  “The Japanese think that way about Mitsui?”

  “Japanese never say what they think.”

  “You don’t seem to be that way.”

  “You think so? Maybe you not know what I think, only know what you hear.”

  “You intrigue me. How did Father know we would be such a good match?”

  Masako opened her eyes wide. “What, you no believe that Father see everything?”

  I wasn’t sure if Masako meant to challenge my faith or reveal something about her own doubts.

  “Koreans good matchmaker,” Masako continued. “Old Korean woman in Sapporo, she get money to make match.”

  “Well, good matchmaking, or whatever, it’s nice to meet you, Masako Fujimoto.”

  “You too, Commander Simon Powell-san.”

  Masako finished the hot chocolate and ordered another. “I no fear great commander,” she said after the fresh cup had arrived.

  “And I’m not afraid of Japanese,” I said.

  Masako’s eyes narrowed. “You should be.”

  I wondered if she was referring to Mitsui or to herself.

  “Before family, what you do?” Masako asked.

  “I wanted to be an artist.”

  “What else?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Were you hippie?”

  “Hair down to here,” I said, indicating a spot on my shoulder. “I did some LSD and I smoked pot.”

  Masako looked at me intently. “I think you still hippie.”

  “Somewhere inside, maybe,” I said, pointing at my head. “What about you?”

  “Me?” Masako seemed surprised at my question. “I was doctor assistant.” She reached across the table. “Let me see hand.”

  I laid my arm on the table, and Masako unwound the bandages.

  “Look like from fire,” she said, peering soulfully into my eyes.

  “Steam from a van’s radiator,” I said, turning from her gaze, “that’s all.”

  Masako replaced the gauze. “Need keep clean.” Something was on her mind, but it took a moment to collect her thoughts. “I am not so young woman,” she said. “Now, thirty. Maybe you never expect such old wife.”

  What a pair we made. I worried about falling short of a woman’s expectations, and Masako thought her age made her undesirable.

  “You are only four years older than me,” I said.

  “I hope Father hold blessing ceremony soon. First child more difficult after thirty.”

  I tried to imagine what our children might look like. “Will you recognize me later?” I asked, re
aching across the table to take her hand.

  “Difficult. American brothers look alike.” Masako flashed a huge smile, telling me without words that I was being ridiculous.

  We walked arm in arm down the sidewalk, but separated as we neared the hotel. This was a repeat of my youthful crush on Virginia. But I hoped this time I would be able to act when the time came.

  An announcement repeated over the loudspeakers as we entered the New Yorker. Everyone was supposed to report to his or her leader. Masako’s central figure was in the lobby. He told her to return immediately to the Church-owned Japanese restaurant in Greenwich Village where she worked. The Japanese brother never acknowledged my presence.

  I followed Masako to the revolving doors and quietly told her I would try to visit the restaurant. I knew where it was located, but had never gotten a meal there.

  Mitsui instructed me to help gather the commanders for a meeting in his office. Father was unhappy that so few members had spiritual children—something he had learned from the questionnaires. Until everyone had brought three spiritual children into the family, there would be no blessing ceremony.

  “Father knows that life on the MFT has made it difficult to witness,” Mitsui said, addressing the commanders. “Now that so many are matched, we need to allow the opportunity.”

  Kawasaki read from a list. “These seven members will begin a witnessing task force.”

  Among the names called out were Dorrit, still in Conrad Pearson’s San Francisco region, and Brenda, who’d be coming from Boston. Nancy was chosen from my region. Philip would take over, at least for now, as commander of Texas.

  Then Mitsui said, “Simon will lead the witnessing team.” He looked at me for a reaction. “What do you think, Simon-san? San Francisco is a good place for witnessing?”

  “What about the San Francisco family?” I asked. “Won’t they object to us moving into their territory?”

  “They need competition,” Mitsui said. “We have Father’s blessing to begin our own center.” He pulled his glasses to the end of his nose. “Are you afraid to compete with Abbanim?”

  “No, sir,” I answered with a militarily snap.

  The other commanders laughed.

  David had joined in San Francisco. Martin had also joined there. The city was the best place to make restitution for my sins. And what a nice change of pace it would be finally to do something other than fundraising.

  CHAPTER 31

  Hyacinths now perfumed the air at Riverdell, and jonquils accented the tree line. Already, redbuds profusely bloomed, and before long, dogwoods would dot the landscape with their mystical white flowers whose petals gave the appearance of bloodstains along the edges.

  At night, before climbing into my bunk, I often went outside to enjoy the cool breezes and catch the moonlight reflecting on the river.

  Spring brought to mind the premonitions that had led me to the family. After nearly two decades, the memory of those acid hallucinations remained fresh. The image of God forming in a vortex of swirling clouds was as vivid as though it had happened yesterday. I still remembered the veins and arteries of the anthropomorphic universe crisscrossing against a backdrop of stars. The voice of God’s angel telling me to seek the clouds of Heaven still resonated.

  Those remarkable dreams had fueled my religious imagination during my first few years as a member. Later, though recognition of church political battles, the weight of contradictory evidence, and the emergence of forbidden desires had crushed my faith, I continued to wonder about Reverend Moon. Deep down, some part of me still believed he might be who he claimed to be.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  At first, Masako and I got to know each other by writing letters. Her limited command of English made it difficult to say what she meant, but Masako’s charming nature always came through.

  Simon-san, next time you come New York, I fix meal at restaurant. I miss you.

  Whenever I visited New York for a commanders’ meeting, I went to Greenwich Village and waited on the bus bench outside Masako’s restaurant, watching people stroll down the sidewalk, until she got off work. When same-sex couples passed by, hand in hand, unashamed, I considered how lucky I was to have a fiancée. And yet my eyes followed them until they disappeared down the street.

  When I took Masako to a late-night movie, we held hands like high school sweethearts. Afterward, we’d walk arm in arm until reaching the revolving doors of the New Yorker. Masako sometimes invited me to her room.

  “Is your name Masako or Eve?” I would chide, happy to have the church’s interpretation of the Eden story as a defense. I would use it until the blessing ceremony. Then what?

  When the Immigration and Naturalization Service began deporting members—who were often reported by anti-cult groups—Father decided that foreign nationals engaged to Americans should get legally married by a justice of the peace and apply for a green card.

  Mitsui called one night to inform me that Masako was to arrive in San Francisco at eight the next morning on American Airlines. “No one can know,” he said, “not even trusted members.”

  “Yes, Taicho,” I said. “May I take Masako to meet my parents?”

  “Not a good idea,” Mitsui said, but after I asked again, he relented.

  “Make an excuse about why you are away from the witnessing center. Do not let the members know what you are doing.” Mitsui hung up the phone with a clack. He wasn’t happy that I had pressured him.

  The next morning, Masako arrived, embracing me in her arms the moment she joined me on the concourse. We went directly to city hall and picked up pamphlets on the legalities of marriage. One explained how to apply for a green card. Outside the beaux arts government building, we found an empty bench, shaded by a canopy of gnarled limbs growing over a post-and-lintel trellis, and tried to make sense of the brochures.

  Masako and I filled out the forms and went inside. When our time arrived, we entered the unadorned office of a justice of the peace. The elderly gentleman stumbled over the few words needed to accomplish the task.

  After he had pronounced Masako and me man and wife, he looked at us and said, “You’re the most disinterested couple I’ve ever joined.”

  “What were you expecting?” I asked.

  “How about kissing the bride?” the man said.

  Masako and I broke out laughing as our lips met.

  On our way out, the man groaned something about “young people” and “lack of sincerity.”

  “Feel any different?” I asked as we walked down the concrete steps to the street.

  Masako shrugged. “I wait for real marriage from Father.”

  “Will you come to Arkansas with me?” I asked. It was the first time I had mentioned my plan. “I’d like you to meet my family.”

  “What about I am Japanese girl?” Masako asked. “I not white girl. They in South. I watch Gone with Wind.”

  My green-card wife’s concern held merit. When I’d telephoned Sibley after the matching ceremony, Vivian broke into tears, bemoaning the fact that she hadn’t been part of such an important life decision. By the time Lenny took the phone, Vivian had already explained that I was going to marry a Japanese woman.

  “What th’hell you think you’re doing,” Lenny grumbled. “No son of mine’s gonna marry a goddamn yella—”

  Vivian pulled the receiver away as he mouthed an offensive slur. My blood boiled at his characterization.

  “What makes Lenny think I’m still his son?” I said to Vivian, hanging up before she could respond.

  Mailing pictures of Masako and me together at tourist sites and famous monuments in New York helped Lenny grow accustomed to the idea that his son would marry an Asian woman. I wasn’t worried about going to visit. Masako was a charmer, anyway, and in person, I knew she would conquer Lenny’s heart.

  I disregarded Mitsui’s order not to allow my witnessing team to know that Masako was in town and that we planned to visit Arkansas. I trusted them and was sure they’d be happy to meet M
asako. They were. Dorrit and Nancy talked to Masako all night long for several nights. I could only imagine their conversations, but I knew Dorrit and Nancy respected me as much as I respected them.

  I waited until Christmas Eve to leave for Sibley, fortunate to get seats at the last minute. As we boarded the plane, I promised Masako that we would leave if she felt uncomfortable.

  “Just be yourself,” I said as the plane soared over the swamplands surrounding the Little Rock airport. “Lenny and Vivian will treat you like family, I’m sure of it.”

  Spotting Connie and Derek waiting for us at the terminal made me doubt what I had promised. Masako cowered behind me, recognizing them from the photos that had accompanied their magazine articles and from family pictures I had shared with her.

  “You must be M’say-ko,” Connie said, butchering the pronunciation of her name as she tried to entice Masako from behind me.

  “That’s Japanese with a Southern accent,” I said to Masako.

  “Isn’t that her name?” Connie truly had no idea she had gotten the emphasis wrong.

  “It’s more like Mah-sah-koh,” I instructed.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you,” Connie said, avoiding another attempt at pronouncing her name.

  Derek extended his hand.

  The fact that Connie and Derek were being cordial made me suspicious, but I didn’t see anyone at the terminal who I thought could be a deprogrammer lying in wait.

  “We were expecting Vivian to meet us,” I said. “Is everything okay?”

  “Lenny wanted to come with her, but Vivian didn’t think he was up to it. You know how he can be,” Connie said. “So she asked if we minded picking you up.”

  Connie and Derek must have sworn an oath to Vivian that they would be civil and not start any trouble.

  “Vivian didn’t mention how Lenny is doing when I called to say we were coming. Is he worse?”

  Connie pulled the shoulders of her blouse to grab her bra straps and adjust herself—one of her standard techniques for diverting attention while trying to think of something to say.