The tabloid went on to say by that night, Midori was already in hiding in her plush hotel, shielded from the public eye by her parents and a hastily hired local lawyer, on retainer until the Ishikori’s family lawyer could fly in from the mainland. Airman Stone was being held in the Okinawa City jail, alongside subway gropers and pachinko debt defaulters and convenience store thieves.
Stone was the first American soldier to be detained in the jail since last year, I read. In two-thousand and seventeen, an intoxicated nineteen-year-old sailor had mowed down a street-side bento stand with his car, sending fried and curried pork patties, ginger slices and sesame rice raining onto the sidewalk. The proprietor was unharmed, but as is typical in such cases, the American was ordered to pay restitution, a hundred percent of the value of the destroyed stand and merchandise, along with another fifty percent as a sign of remorse, inflated numbers that would secure a comfortable future for the injured party. The sailor remained in jail for eleven months while his family in Indiana scrimped and borrowed to come up with the payment, a hefty get-out-of-the-military-early fee.
Aghast, I couldn’t stop reading. I learned that over seven decades, there had been many accusations made by Okinawans against U.S. servicemen. They’d started around the time of the post-World War II occupation, an occupation many locals still considered illegal, and continued over many decades. There were reports of a multitude of assaults, robberies and thefts perpetrated by military men. But every few years, and again today, the American in the Okinawa jail was there for a much more egregious offense, an alleged rape of the very honor and spirit of the Japanese, in the form of a schoolgirl, a crime for which no remuneration would suffice.
The web buzzed with opinions about how the rape would finally force the Americans off the island for good, that this crime amounted to a fatal wound, an irreparably deep gash in the shared cultural and social center where American military, mostly men, and Okinawans, mostly women, intersected and intermingled; the restaurants, beaches, shopping malls and peepshow cocktail bars where they congregated, or had done, until yesterday.
And this morning, my second full day on Okinawa, Americans and Okinawans, previously civil and even social, sat on opposite sides of military barricades nurturing opposing views, almost to a person. Online forums revealed Americans believed Stone was innocent; Okinawans were sure he was guilty. Americans on Kadena Air Base, White Beach Naval Facility, Army Fort Buckner, Marine Camp Foster, Marine Camp Futenma, Marine Camp Courtney, Marine Camp Lester and Marine Camp Kinser—so many bases on this sixty-mile-long speck of land in the East China Sea—posted screeds about Stone’s probable scapegoat status, the girl’s likely motives for the accusation, either greed or to save face. Outraged Okinawans, on the other hand, urged people to escalate the protests.
At eight-thirty a.m., Kadena’s commanding officer, Colonel Walker, released a statement on the base’s official PR web page, and quickly republished everywhere, that prohibited Air Force personnel from leaving the base. Commanders of the other installations followed suit. Walker promised a full investigation, prosecution and punishment if Stone was found guilty. The Okinawa police simultaneously released their own online video, assured the public they were safe from the Americans, and that they’d be working on the case as a judicial arbitrator “in charge” of the U.S. military police’s efforts.
“We assure our great citizens that justice will prevail and that Midori Ishikori’s honor will be renewed. We will vanquish the American menace that threatens our peace and security.” Police Chief Ito sneered into the camera as he read the press release. His awkward phrasing and the odd inflection of his spoken English gave his otherwise threatening tone an almost comic element, a detail not missed by mean-spirited bloggers who taunted him online.
Finally, my car arrived at Okinawa Week, which turned out to be a small concrete building at the dead end of a downtown road. I braced myself for what was to come and walked toward the front doors. In all the chaos, I’d almost forgotten I was about to meet Owen’s brother, Hisashi, the staff photographer.
As I reached toward the door handle, Midori Ishikori appeared in front of me. Her image was plastered on the side of the Okinawa Week building, the words “Fuck Off Americans!” scrawled across the bottom. The skin on my arms and neck jumped and I tripped backwards. I righted my balance and saw that the photo was the same shot I’d seen online, with soft studio lighting and the girl’s school insignia on a crisp white blouse, only now, captioned with profanity.
Chapter Three
Amista came out the front doors to greet me, saw the sign, and ripped it off the wall. Stupefied, I didn’t move. She asked me how my day had gone yesterday. I mumbled something about the dog rescue, meeting Nathan, and my impression of the Sunabe Seawall as something like Southern California.
“I should’ve told you,” she said. “That area is an American hangout, not so much a place that Okinawans go. It’s too expensive.”
I couldn’t believe we were engaged in small talk. “What about that?” I asked, pointing to the crumpled paper in her hand. Woozy, I took hold of her arm, and she steadied me. On top of the encounter with the protestors, the sign on the building and its hostile profanity felt personal, like a looming threat. She waited for me to compose myself.
“These things happen,” she said. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Okay,” I said, confused. She ushered me toward the front doors. I was fatigued, stressed and in semi-shock that rendered me passive.
A single stone shisa, painted in bright green, red and yellow, sat to the right of the Okinawa Week’s glass front-doors. I recognized the shisa from the many pictures I’d seen, traditional Japanese statues of lion-dogs that guard doors of homes and offices, usually stationed in pairs, one on each side.
“There used to be two shisas, but one was stolen,” Amista said, “so we’re only semi-safe.” She meant this to be funny, but it wasn’t. She pushed open the doors and nudged me inside.
The office was large and open with several wooden desks spread out in no discernable pattern. A middle-aged Japanese woman sat at a drafting table facing the front window. No one else was there, just me, Amista and her. I wondered if this woman had seen the frightening sign too, and I watched Amista crumple it and toss it into a trash can.
“Hello Lucy. I’m Rumiko,” said the woman. “Graphic artist.” She stood to greet me but didn’t shake my hand. “Welcome to here.” She had a pencil behind one ear and the cord to her glasses caught on the other. She wore jeans and a plain white blouse. Her round glasses and makeup-less face gave her the air of an academic. “Please seat. Hai.” She said, and indicated a desk toward the back wall, empty except for a big desktop computer, a printer, and a gold gift box with an oversize red bow.
“Thank you,” I said, opting not to answer in Japanese. I hadn’t tried to speak to anyone yet in my limited Japanese. I was certain they’d be intolerant if I flubbed the grammar or pronunciation. “Nice to meet you,” I added, as if I was happy to be there and planned to get to know her. Telling half-lies had become a habit for me, like hiding my face behind makeup.
“Hai, Lucy. Nice,” Rumiko said. She pointed to the gift box on my desk, so I opened it. Inside I found a plump and perfect honeydew melon. “Fruit special mainland,” Rumiko said. “Ashimine-san, for you.” I had no difficulty understanding her meaning, but I did a little mental hiccup at the lack of verbs in her speech.
Hai, yes, turned out to be one of Rumiko’s favorite words. I wasn’t sure if she liked me or not, but she answered yes, “hai,” to every question I asked. “Do you create the layout of the newspaper?” I’d asked her. “Hai,” she replied, and showed me the computer mockup of the week’s issue. “Have you worked here a long time?” “Hai. Long time.”
She showed me illustrations from the last issue, including a pen and pencil drawing of the soon-to-be-built new terminal at the Naha airport—sleek in comparison to the old, dank terminal where I’d deplaned. I refrained from asking
Rumiko why the paper didn’t publish photos with the story, instead of her drawings.
Amista noticed my questioning expression. “We only have one photographer,” she said, and explained that Rumiko’s original drawings were used to fill in the gaps where photos might have been. “You’ll meet Hisashi,” she said, and a sprinkling of anticipation seeped into my stomach.
Meeting Owen’s brother would be the only positive aspect of an otherwise bad day. I rehearsed my resignation speech in my head and spent my first hour in the office reading over Okinawa Week back issues at my desk. I realized that the quirky throwback nature of Rumiko’s hand-drawn images was one of the paper’s unique and popular features. Despite my intention to flee back to the U.S., this cozy old-fashioned office intrigued me. Amista already felt like a protective older sister to me and as the minutes clicked by, I grew more worried about how she’d take the news of my departure.
I jumped in my chair when a small, dark figure came down the hallway. I hadn’t realized anyone else was there. It was a stocky man in a suit and tie who emerged from a back office. He bowed in front of my desk. “I welcome you to Okinawa Week. Thank you for joining my staff,” he said, and shook my hand. “Watashi-wa Ashimine-san.”
“Thank you,” I stammered. “And thank you for this gift.”
“You’re welcome. We are happy to have you here. And please don’t be alarmed at the protests,” he said, his eyes full of fatherly concern. His face was like burled oak and his voice was quiet and firm. He gave the overall impression of a Yoda, grizzled, wise and kind. He did another little bow and said we’d have a meeting after I’d gotten settled, then went back down the hallway and disappeared to where he’d come from. I almost called after him but refrained. My will to quit was waning. It was hard to imagine disappointing this sweet elderly man.
As the staff came in for the day, I was more and more sure I should stay. One-by-one Amista introduced me to the odd, mismatched bunch at Okinawa Week. Jed Conkright was a red-faced, pot-bellied American expat who’d retired from an export company to cover local business for the paper. Kei Naoki was a Japanese reporter, about thirty-five years old and either too shy to look at me or just uninterested. “Reporters come and go,” Amista whispered. “Kei doesn’t pay much attention.”
Cece Hildebrandt was the wife of an Air Force pilot and the paper’s culture reporter, and she squeezed both of my hands when she said hello. She was whisper thin and had perfect red lipstick and arched black eyebrows. It was dizzying to be in the company of so many personalities after more than a week of mostly solitude. Cece, in particular, couldn’t get over the fact that I’d come to Okinawa voluntarily, and alone.
“You aren’t married to a military guy?” She raised one over-plucked eyebrow in disbelief. “You found this job and just moved here? To Okinawa, on purpose?”
Amista interrupted. “We’re lucky to have her. She came from the Chicago Sun-Times.”
“Oh yes,” Cece back-pedaled. “I’m sure we’re lucky.” Amista shook her head a little but Cece didn’t notice. “Can you believe what’s going on today, with the protests?” Cece said, in a hushed tone. “Okinawa is such a hellhole. Of course, this had to happen to a lily-white mainlander,” she added.
Amista sputtered, “What, as if it would be better if it happened to a dark-skinned Okinawan girl?”
I was rattled by this sudden angry exchange. Amista glowered at Cece and with a start I understood that the rape allegation was loaded with racial implications. Stone was black, Midori was fair, many Okinawans were dark-skinned. I wasn’t sure what it all meant, but I recall in that moment, being forced to take note of skin color. Rape is rape, I’d thought at first. The colors and nationalities of the perpetrator and victim were irrelevant. I didn’t know what I didn’t know. The word “hellhole” echoed in my ears.
Everyone dispersed to their desks and I followed Amista to hers. “I was planning to quit today,” I blurted out.
“There you go, spouting off,” she said. “Didn’t I warn you about doing that?” She shot me an amused smirk and said she was surprised, asked why I wanted to leave. I told her it had all been too much, that I was overwhelmed by how foreign everything was and by how hostile.
“After coming all this way, you’d just up and quit?” she said. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a quitter.”
Her words stung me, and she was right. If I ran home to Illinois, I’d regret it. Even though Owen wasn’t on this island and even though Okinawa was an alien and hostile version of the Japan I’d expected, I’d gut it out. I’d stick with my new job and new country and face the unknown. I was miserable and scared and overwhelmed, but I wasn’t a quitter and after all, I was in the country I’d longed for. So right then, standing in front of Amista’s desk, I resolved to stay.
In all the drama of the day, I had almost forgotten the tantalizing prospect that soon I’d meet Hisashi, Owen’s brother. “What about the photographer,” I asked Amista. “Will he be here today?”
Just then someone barged through the double front doors in a flurry, like a cartoon character or superhero, in a wave of energy that rippled across the office. He towered over me, tall and muscular, with a camera slung over his shoulder. “Lucy!” he said, as though we were good old friends. He shook my hand and it was enveloped by his much larger one. “So great to meet you.”
“You too,” I said, and examined his face for any trace of Owen. His frame was much larger than Owen’s. But, did Hisashi have the same neat, small teeth as Owen?
“You were friends with Owen.” It was a statement, not a question.
Amista was looking on, puzzled. “You two know each other?”
“Not exactly,” Hisashi said. “She knew my brother back in college.”
She opened her eyes wide in surprise and turned back to her work.
Changing the subject, Hisashi said, “When time permits, I’ll take photos for your stories.” Like Owen’s, Hisashi’s English was perfect and could’ve passed for American. His friendly, forthright manner had a valium effect on me, dulling my razor nerves. I saw in him no trace of my subtle, skinny hipster boyfriend. “Oh, I have the tea set Owen wanted you to have. I’ll give it to you later,” he said, grinning at me. Then he blew out of the office in the same blustery way he’d entered. I sat at my desk reverberating like a ringing bell.
Throughout the rest of the day I compared mental snapshots of Owen and Hisashi. They were so unalike. Owen was slender and soft spoken; Hisashi’s bulk took up a doorframe, his voice boomed. They were brothers, but I couldn’t see it.
From my desk, I caught glimpses of Rumiko looking at me. It wasn’t hostility in her expression, but a sort of disdain, her darting eyes narrow, thinking.
In the years since my father died, I’d taken on a fragment of my mother’s invisible stillness, had taught myself how to be unnoticed when I wanted to. I could inhabit a crowded room and remain alone. But I felt exposed in Rumiko’s observing glances, as if she saw me and didn’t approve. I took to ignoring her, never catching her gaze.
Hisashi didn’t come back to the office that first day and I wouldn’t see him again until the following week. My curiosity grew stronger. Why was Owen’s brother here, in Okinawa, instead of in Tokyo with his fancy family? He had mentioned the tea set as an afterthought, but the tea set represented Owen’s broken promises to me; it was a symbol of what we had. Back at Northwestern, he’d promised to give me the tea set, told me it was a special gift. But he never gave it to me. And then he left. Had Owen told his family about me, that he loved me, and I loved him? I dove into work to occupy my time, stifle my unease, and pass the time until I could talk to Hisashi again.
My desire to get to know Hisashi and the possibility of seeing Owen again solidified my decision to stay in Okinawa. No way I could leave until I understood. Once I got the information, the closure I needed, maybe I’d be ready to head back to Illinois, start over at the Sun-Times, or maybe go straight to New York and try to get hired by The New York
Times. If Owen was out of my life for good, Japan couldn’t retain its ferocious hold on me.
* * *
Back in my quiet hotel room, I considered my first days in Japan. I ruminated on what Amista said about our office shisa, that it only kept us half safe, and I wrote a poem.
* * *
A pair of guards, fierce protectors, loyal and strong,
always in twos, never stationed alone,
as if solitude sapped their strength.
Lion-dog-soldiers, one the keeper of good,
one to cast off evil. But what of a single shisa?
She waits helpless, to witness what befalls her wards.
* * *
I worried about the profane sign that Amista crumpled and tossed away as if it was unimportant. Wasn’t it a threat? I hoped her joke was wrong, that I was safe on Okinawa, safe in Japan. I decided that on my first day off, I’d shop for a partner for our Okinawa Week shisa. Might not help heal the island’s troubles, but maybe it would protect our little office.
Chapter Four
Illinois, 2013
I was living with my parents, preparing for my senior year at Northwestern. The orange and blood August sunset washed the Oakville sky in a brilliant haze. We’d had a small pizza party celebration for my twenty-first birthday, just my family, Rose and her mom. At the end of the night, my dad, tipsy and happy, said, “Good for you, Lu. You’re ready to fly where the wind takes you.” His eyes were at half-mast and his skin felt clammy when he hugged me. Wobbling up the narrow stairs to his bedroom, he blew me a kiss. He was sweet like that, blowing kisses, speaking to me in optimistic clichés, especially after a few glasses of wine. My parents had offered me wine too that night, but I turned it down. In reaction to my father’s overdrinking, I’d become a teetotaler early on.
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