Gaijin

by Sarah Z Sleeper

  Hisashi side-eyed me, didn’t face me straight on. “Just how well do you know Owen?” he said, skepticism masking his broad face.

  “We dated.” I was flustered. “No, that’s not right. I guess it’s right to say that I loved him, and he told me he loved me, but I don’t know for sure how he felt. After he left, I only heard from him once. Just one text.”

  “Dated,” Hisashi said it as though it were a four-letter word. “You dated Owen.” Sarcasm or disbelief tinged his voice, like an icy wind slicing my heart.

  “We were young. I don’t really know what we did. Just spent some time together, I guess.” I couldn’t feel my face or my fingers. They’d gone numb.

  Hisashi face was frozen in a grimace. The wind was picking up outside and hissed through the edges of the doors. “Do you know why Owen wanted to die?”

  “No.”

  “That was online too. The reason he did it. Didn’t you find it?”

  Now my face burned. I couldn’t meet his eyes. “I couldn’t bring myself to read anything more. I really don’t know.”

  “Someday, if we become better friends, I will tell you about it.” He emphasized the word friends and I shifted down in my seat, crossed my hands on my lap, resigned.

  We didn’t speak the rest of the way back to the office. When he dropped me off, he said, “Lucy, I’m not angry at you for your relationship with Owen. You just don’t understand.”

  I braced myself against the whipping wind, held my soaked hair against my head with one hand. “Then help me understand,” I pleaded. “Why did he do it?” My shoes were waterlogged boats and my clothes wet rags stuck to my body. He must have heard the desperation in my voice.

  “Being an Ota almost killed him,” he said with finality, so I knew not to say another thing. He shot me a sad glance and I got out of the car. He drove off into the grey and ominous evening and I slogged to my car and back to my apartment. The entryway to my elevator was a murky pond and trickles had seeped below the shiny mirrored door into the compartment.

  It was dry inside my apartment, but wind roared during the night and rain pelted my bedroom window. Snuggled in my bed, I held onto my phone, but didn’t dare try to look for more information about Owen. Both he and Hisashi had been shunned by their family back in Tokyo. Their father’s disapproval had driven Hisashi as far away from Tokyo as he could possibly be while still in Japan, and it had nearly taken Owen’s life.

  I wiped a tear from my cheek. I would call my mother in the morning, tell her I loved her. In all my parents had done or not done for me growing up, I could barely fathom what it must feel like to be outcast by your family. I had striven to leave my poor, grieving mother, who would have done anything to keep me around. Hisashi and Owen had been rejected by their own father. I knew there was more to the story, that Owen had been so hurt he didn’t want to live. But I wasn’t any closer to knowing what it was.

  I downed some cold sake and tried to sleep, hoped my dad would whisper comforts to me over the howling storm outside. I prayed that Hisashi wouldn’t reject me now, the way that Owen had done in his fort when he simultaneously kissed me and pushed me away, and when he left me for good. I wanted Hisashi as a friend. His warmth and upbeat demeanor had brought me what little peace I’d felt in Japan. And I still had hope I’d learn more about Owen.

  Chapter Sixteen

  By the time the sun rose everything was still. It felt like the electric Illinois air right before a tornado strikes, when the leaves on the trees stop moving, hovering in anticipation, and the silence is full of tension and we think the tornado passed us by. Sometimes it had, but other times we shelter in the basement and gut out the worst of it, which comes right after the calm of its eye. We stay below, handwringing, until we know our house hasn’t taken a fatal hit. Typhoon Fred, the TV news said, had come in and out like a whirling dervish and small swaths of rural farmlands were now sodden rubble and ruin. But a major disaster has been averted and the storm raged out into the East China Sea toward its next target.

  My part of the island, Okinawa City, was spared Fred’s brunt and the typhoon-proof windows of my building were intact. The protestors were back at their posts. A few downed store signs littered the streets on my way to the office, shattered splotches of bright blue and electric green, winking up from the sidewalk. I drove to work and patted my shisa, silently thanked her for protecting me from Typhoon Fred. I was the only one in the office and I quickly typed up a draft of my university story.

  I was preoccupied by last night’s interaction with Hisashi. Being an Ota almost killed Owen, he’d said. There’d been a heaviness to his voice, an exhaustion, as if being an Ota was an unbearable burden. I reflected on my minor part in the entirety of Owen’s life, and a thread around my heart slackened, floated loose. When Hisashi blew in to work, I shot him my best smile, hoping he’d warm up to me again.

  Amista came in and said I should tag along for her coverage of the rape story that day, an interview with Stone’s military attorney on Kadena Air Base. She’d hit a wall with Midori’s attorneys, family and friends; no one in the Ishikori camp was willing to talk. But there would be an Ishikori family press conference in two days, as well as the preliminary court hearing, where criminal charges would be filed before a judge. I asked her if Hisashi was coming along for the interview today too and she said he was.

  I clicked around online, anxious, but also eager to spend another day with Hisashi. MoshiNaha had published a new photo of Midori Ishikori on its home page, a shot of her standing next to a black sedan. According to the caption it was taken at her home in Tokyo, in the driveway of her gated mansion. “How did they get that, if it’s inside the gates?” I asked Amista.

  “MoshiNaha reporters have no ethics. They probably scaled the wall.” Her tan face was puffy, her warm eyes swollen. No one, not even strong, sure Amista was immune to the effects of the drama all around us. I made three strong cups of coffee and gave one to her and one to Hisashi, who gave me a little nod of thanks. I tried to imagine scaling a wall to take a surreptitious photo, and frustrated, understood that I’d never be able to do something so daring, so against the rules.

  By noon Amista, Hisashi and I were stuck in a line of cars trying to enter Kadena Air Base. Our car was flanked on both sides by throngs of protestors. Some of the marchers did close, glaring once-overs of our car, of Hisashi. He sat tall, unaffected, and gazed back at them with his usual sociable demeanor. They looked at me too and I squirmed and turned my face.

  Ahead of us at the base gates the guards inspected each car carefully, asked questions and even opened trunks and shone flashlights in them. “That’s not normal,” Amista said. “Usually cars zip through.”

  She had all the windows open despite the ninety-degree temperature, so we could hear what was going on around us; shop door bells chimed, a vendor hawked food from a small stand, car engines groaned in the heat, and the protestors chanted over the sounds of commerce. Their signs were in English, for the benefit of U.S. media Amista said, and one in particular caught my eye, “Americans Go Home!” a red sign with a black X through the word “Americans.” It was carried by a tiny bird of a woman with a face like wet sand. Its black scrawl on a red background reminded me of the red cardboard sign that had been on Okinawa Week’s door.

  I fingered the digital recorder I’d put in my purse. Amista would record the interview, but I’d record my own copy, so I could review the conversation and learn how she handled Airman Stone’s lawyer.

  “On the way out, let’s stop and see if we can talk to some of these folks,” Amista said. This struck me as a scary thing to do, to stand face-to-face with people who probably hated me and at the very least wanted me gone. She read my face.

  “Lucy, these protests aren’t violent,” she said. “That’s a big difference between the States and here.”

  I hoped she was right. I could see anger smeared across many faces, but their actions were controlled and calm, and they waved and chanted in choreogra
phed unison. Police on foot and in cars patrolled the area but didn’t wield tear gas canisters or rifles as they’d done when protests cropped up in U.S. cities.

  When we finally made it to the gate, the guards, sharp in pressed uniforms, wore pistols holstered around their hips. The head guard asked our purpose for coming on base. Amista told him we had an appointment with Colonel Abdir, and he referred to a clipboard, handed us a card to display in the window, and gave us a map with directions to the office. “Carry on,” he said and waved us through.

  I’d never been on an Air Force base, but it looked exactly like in the movies -- clean wide streets, tidy matched houses with identical white siding, manicured lawns, and flower-lined walkways with American flags waving by the front doors. One hundred yards behind us Kadena Gate Street was a blur of people and business, with trash on the sidewalks in front of bars and knickknack shops. The same road was now a Stepford, squeaky clean version of itself.

  Amista pointed out a long flat concrete building with a large parking lot. “That’s the BX, the base exchange. It’s basically a department store. Good deals on makeup and shoes.” I hadn’t put it together that Amista had shopping privileges there because of her husband’s status as a retired Air Force sergeant. So many facets of life on Okinawa, I hadn’t a clue about.

  We arrived at Colonel Abdir’s office, which was at the end of a long runway and adjacent to an airplane hangar. The corrugated metal building reflected shards of sharp sunlight. I was excited, eager to have access to any tiny part of such an important story. Inside, a tall uniformed man escorted us into a room with a long wooden table, black office swivel chairs, and an American flag and Air Force seal in one corner. The man instructed us to sit, then shut the door behind him. There was no art on the walls, no books anywhere.

  Colonel Abdir came in, shook our hands and sat across the empty table from us. He was trim with a tall forehead and a thick jawline and nose. His eyes didn’t reveal if he was kind or cruel.

  “It’s not my policy to grant interviews about pending court cases,” he said. “But I know you’ll write a story whether I talk to you or not, so I’d rather I tell you the facts than you get them wrong from somewhere else. Okinawa Week has always been a friend to Kadena and our military families.” He didn’t smile as he said this, and his gaze was level at Amista. She didn’t change her expression and neither did Hisashi.

  “Thank you, Colonel. We won’t take much of your time,” she said. “I just have a few questions. I’m going to record you, okay?” In one fluid motion, she set her recorder on the desk in front of him.

  “Yes,” he said. “That way we’ll both know if you quote me accurately.” His eyes were stern, but he smiled as if he’d told a joke.

  Amista said, “As well, Hisashi would like to take a photo of you to accompany the piece.”

  “Fine. And her?” He gestured toward me.

  “She’s new, learning the ropes. Just along to listen.” I slid down a little in my seat, to make myself inconspicuous. She flicked the recorder on, and I turned on mine inside my pocket. “What is your official position on the guilt or innocence of Airman Stone?”

  “Airman Stone is innocent. He had a consensual sexual encounter with Midori Ishikori. I don’t know why she accused him of rape, but I have to wonder if it’s because she later regretted her decision.” He spoke in a firm staccato.

  “Midori Ishikori is only fifteen years old. Isn’t that statutory rape?”

  “Midori Ishikori told Airman Stone that she was nineteen. He believed her.”

  “Does Airman Stone make a habit of hooking up with teenagers when he’s off duty?”

  “Airman Stone has a commendable record of service in the United States Air Force. We have no information indicating that he’s broken any rules or laws when he’s off duty.” Colonel Abdir was unflappable, rehearsed.

  “So, the Air Force doesn’t have any rules about its ranks’ sexual behaviors?”

  “The United States Air Force rules are the same as the laws of the United States, only tighter. Service members are not allowed to do anything outside the law and furthermore, they are not allowed to have extra-marital affairs and are subject to disciplinary action if they do so. It’s fair to say the rules in the Air Force are stricter than U.S. law.”

  “What is your response to Midori Ishikori’s allegation that she was raped by Airman Stone?”

  “Airman Stone did not rape Midori Ishikori. They had consensual sex.”

  “Is there any chance Airman Stone is lying?”

  “No.”

  “Because rapists always tell the truth?”

  Annoyed now, he said, “You are out of line, Mrs. Noga. I have no comment on what rapists do or don’t do.”

  Amista didn’t falter, pressed on with her questions. “What is your response to the protests right outside the base gates? What would you say to the protestors?”

  Colonel Abdir paused, thinking. “I’d tell them that Airman Stone is innocent. I’d also tell them that if they have other reasons for protesting, they should take it up with their own government.” The colonel stood. “I have another meeting. Anything else?”

  “No. Thank you. May I call you again if I think of something else?”

  “Yes. But if you call again, it better be with new questions. I won’t waste my time going over the same things again.” Colonel Abdir was how I’d imagined he’d be—efficient, stern, articulate, off-putting but impressive. And Amista had handled the interview with ease and slick professionalism. Hisashi snapped a few quick photos of the colonel standing by the two flags.

  “He’s smart, really smart,” Amista said, as we headed back toward the gate. “Didn’t give me anything that wasn’t perfectly stated to make his case. I don’t know if he believes Stone is innocent, but he’s unflappable. At least we got direct comments, that’s more than MoshiNaha or anyone else will get.”

  “I guess I didn’t quite understand that part,” I said, straining to find the right words. “Isn’t there something unethical about granting one news source an interview and not the others?”

  Hisashi had been quiet but now he said, “No. It would only be unethical if he gave different information to different reporters. If he altered the facts of the case in any way,” he said, from over his shoulder. “Think about it, Lucy, newspapers and websites get scoops all the time. If a reporter does a better job making contacts and finding information, he gets a better story. Happens all the time.”

  “Right,” I said, turning this over in my mind. Hisashi caught my eye in the side mirror and shot me a look, his expression amused. I almost laughed. I was as green as a reporter could be. I turned to Amista. “I’ve never seen anyplace like Kadena Air Base before.”

  “What do you think of it? I lived on bases like that for twenty-five years.”

  “Stepford neighborhood? Scary sameness? Twilight Zone perfection? Something like that,” I said. “Even my hometown, Oakville, Illinois, isn’t that homogenous.”

  Amista glanced at me sideways. “Okay, but on base there are black people, brown people like me, Muslims, Christians and everything in between. Is that true in your Illinois neighborhood?”

  “No. But, I wasn’t raised to look at color or to judge someone’s religion,” I said, defensiveness tightening my neck muscles.

  “Not acknowledging differences doesn’t mean they don’t exist,” Amista said. “For all the trouble the bases cause here on Okinawa, they are also real-life, functioning melting pots. Think about it. Where else but in the military do you interact constantly with every type of person you could imagine?” I was chagrined. I wasn’t just a green reporter, I was a green person, a product of my insular suburban upbringing.

  “Don’t be so hard on her,” Hisashi said. He’d been listening to our exchange. “She’s young.” And now he grinned at me in the mirror, as if he’d gotten some sort of upper hand by recognizing my inexperience, then turned to Amista. “Do you think Stone did it?”

  “I�
��m reserving judgment until the trial,” she said.

  “He’s guilty,” Hisashi said. “Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time they are.”

  I almost piped up and said that’s what Rumiko thought too, but as I’d been admonished to do, I kept my mouth shut.

  As we exited the base, Amista turned onto a side street and parked in front of a store with bikinis and sandals in the window. We walked back to Kadena Gate Street and Hisashi and I hung back while Amista approached a young woman holding a baby in one arm and a protest sign in the other. The two women spoke for a moment and then we went back to the car. I asked what the woman said.

  “She said that she doesn’t know if Stone is guilty, but that she wishes the U.S. Military would leave Okinawa. Also, that she has nothing against Americans in general.”

  Hisashi said, “Did you point out how much business these little shops would lose if the bases closed?”

  “I did,” Amista said. “I asked if she was willing to see business here shuttered because soldiers were no longer customers. She said Okinawans and tourists were enough to keep the businesses afloat. And she told me I shouldn’t be allowed to live here.”

  * * *

  When we got back to work, Ashimine-san went to Amista’s desk. “How is the story coming? Did the Colonel make a useful comment?”

  “He said that Kadena has a special appreciation for Okinawa Week, and that’s why he gave us the interview.”

  Ashimine-san bowed to Amista. “Domo Arigato. You make me proud.” It was an intimate scene, two old colleagues and friends. It was beginning to dawn on me how deeply Amista was integrated into life here, with dual roles as a local employee and also as spouse of retired American military, who’d opted to live there permanently. She could rightly claim Japan as her home; it was part of her history and she was part of its economy. That recognition of her status also reminded me of how much of an outsider I was, in every possible way.