Kettle takes a deep breath in. He’s learning this all for the first time, and I can tell it’s upsetting him.
I turn to him. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” I’m sorry I’m lying to you, all the time. So. Many. Lies. But maybe if I do this, my father’s identity won’t be as big a deal. Maybe.
Kin’s eyes light up. He puts a hand on his heart and says in a breathy, feminine voice, “This is all so sudden.” Then more seriously, “Well, I do turn eighteen in a few days’ time.”
How did we get here so fast?
Kettle blows air through his nose slowly, and I count to ten. I don’t know why we’re both looking to him for permission but somehow, that’s where we are.
“No,” he says. “No way.” There is a look being exchanged between the two of them, a silent conversation and an understanding. Kin shuts his mouth and tries to stop grinning.
Kettle faces me, looking like a disapproving father, tapping his foot and shaking his head.
“But it could be the solution to all of our problems,” I say, only half-believing my own words.
He shakes his head again. From the kitchen, Miss Anna shouts, “Cookies!” Our heads all swing in the direction of the house and then fall back on Kettle.
Kin smirks. “Cookies sound good, don’t they, Kettle?”
Kettle won’t move. “You’re not marrying Kin,” he states flatly.
Kin’s eyes go from Kettle to me, Kettle to me. “Well, well, well…”
I blink at Kettle and open my mouth to speak. He puts his hand up in my face, blocking my view of everything. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re not marrying me either.”
I frown. He’s being unreasonable. Not thinking it through. Am I?
The smell of chocolate chip cookies wafts over from the trays the women are carrying around the yard. “Well, there goes your chance to marry up in this world,” Kin says to me with a wink, pointing to the sky.
Kettle snatches a cookie from the tray and snarls at Kin. “Don’t wink at her. Just… don’t.”
It makes us both giggle, even though I know there’s seriousness to come.
Kin and I take a cookie each and nibble at them, melted chocolate smudging our fingers. “Thanks, Tenpin!” Kin says with a smile.
Miss Anna giggles and slaps at him with her praying mantis arms. Then she looks at Kettle and me. “He has a nickname for everyone around here.”
Kettle laughs, and I love the sound of it. “I don’t doubt it.”
The subject of marriage is dropped for the moment, although I can see it typing lines in Kettle’s brain. We talk about the ladies who run the place, Kin’s rehab, when he might come home. I observe them, saying little. Their interactions are easy. Brotherly. And my heart aches.
Frankie, I miss you so much.
“I can’t come home. At least, not to that home,” Kin says sadly. “Kettle, you know I won’t be able to get around down there. If I came back to the city, it would have to be to a real apartment. Preferably Eastside, ground floor, great view, hardwood floors…” he jokes.
He doesn’t mention my suggestion of marriage again, but I know he’s thinking about it. He’s hinting to Kettle.
“You’ll be fine. We’ll make it work, once you’re better,” Kettle says, lightly punching him in the arm. The action makes me flinch, and Kin catches my response. There’s something in those dark eyes. They see more than his mouth lets on.
When it’s time to leave, the ladies make us promise to visit again soon.
Kin manages to walk us to the door, taking a break halfway down the hall. It pains me to watch him struggle and to watch Kettle’s reaction to that struggle. I might as well have kicked him in the stomach.
Kin leans his tall frame against the doorway and smiles.
“I’ll come see you on your birthday,” Kettle promises.
Kin looks over the top of Kettle’s head and down on me. I blush. “And you? Will I see your beautiful face again, Kite?”
“I hope so,” I say with a weird flutter in my voice.
Kettle stalks past us both, makes it to the first step, and then swings around. Quite suddenly, he rushes Kin, throws his arms around his neck, and hugs him tightly. I hear him sniff and then they break apart. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he says.
“I’ll see you soon,” Kin promises.
We turn and walk down the path. When we reach the gate, Kin shouts, “Goodbye, future wife!” He chuckles as the door closes.
***
Kettle’s silence is unending. It eats at me, takes pieces and won’t give them back.
The boys eat noisily at the card table. Kettle sits on his bed, hands clasped between his legs, just staring at the wall. The arch over him makes me think of an upside-down horseshoe, all the luck just tumbling out.
I find a drink in the grocery bag and take it over to him. It drips with condensation, and water slips from the bottle and onto the leg of his pants.
He grabs the bottle, muttering, “Thanks.”
I sit down on the chest, the one full of all my mother’s things, and sigh.
“I can’t marry you,” he says.
“I know.” I stare at the floor. I don’t really want this anyway. So I shouldn’t be disappointed.
“It’s just, it’s not how things are done. It shouldn’t be like this. If we were going to… I would ask… and…” I fill in all the missing words, but I find myself more confused. He flips the conversation. “That girl, the one who flicked Kin’s suspenders, who was she?”
“My sister,” I say softly, trying to close the door before all the lies come flooding out.
He sighs, disappointed. “You didn’t need to lie to me about her. I kinda guessed she might be.”
“If you knew, why didn’t you say something?” I ask, my lies resist, but they’re being forced open. One down, two to go.
“I figured you’d tell me when you were ready,” he says. “Is she still with him? Your father?” He cringes when he talks about him. Will that change?
My voice is weak, cracked, “I don’t know where she is. He took her away.”
Kettle’s dark blue eyes shine like the sun bouncing off the deepest sea. “I can help you find her. You helped me. Let me help you,” he says, and my heart wants to reach for the hope he’s offering, but I just can’t. If he knows her name, my name, things will change. I now realize how stupid it was to suggest marriage. Once he and Kin learned who I was, it all would have evaporated. I’m the daughter of their defender, one of the men fighting for justice on behalf of the Japanese Americans who were interned during the war.
If I married Kin, there would be so many questions I wouldn’t be able to answer. The truth about my father and what he’s done to me could come out and the compensation case would be ruined.
I shake my head. “That’s not necessary. You’ve done so much for me already. More than enough.”
His hands are aflame, his eyes so earnest when they look at me. “Nora, what’s going on? Why won’t you let me help you? We need to find your sister and expose your father for the monster he is. The son of a bitch should be in jail.”
“You don’t understand. It’s not that simple.” My legs are matchsticks glued together. They buckle, they break.
“The hell it isn’t!” he shouts, and five heads swivel in our direction.
The truth is pushing at the sides of my head, looking for cracks. And then there are the real cracks that my father made. Slowly, they are pulling apart. I clamp my hands on either side of my head to try and keep my head together.
Kettle falls to his knees in front of me and puts his hands over mine. He lifts my face to meet his and gently pulls my hands from my eyes. “Nora, tell me why you won’t let me help you,” he says, sighing, his gaze following the tears that drip into my palms and race down my arms. “Just tell me.”
The floodgates open. “I was there. It was me. I’m sorry,” I say into my hands. He won’t forgive me. “I’m the ‘rich chick’, although I didn
’t faint from too many drinks. I ran away after the beating of my life. Kettle,” I say, “I thought he was going to kill me. I had to run. Oh, but it didn’t take too long for the great Christopher Deere to find me.” I drop my head in shame. “I was free for barely an hour.”
Realization smacks us both in the face, hard. I said my father’s name. I want to shove it back in, but it’s too late. My arms stretch out to him as I see his expression change. “Kettle, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you who my father was. I knew it would change how you saw me, how you felt about me, and I wanted a chance to make my own impression before that happened.”
Kettle’s anger grows. His fists tighten and his face contorts. “Jesus! I can’t believe it! I can’t believe… you.” He points at me, and it’s like a sword to my chest.
It’s over. I stand and turn toward Kin’s bed, to the only place I’ve ever truly slept. “I’m sorry. I’ll go. I’ll leave.”
I’m shaking. I have nowhere to go. The mess I’ve made can’t be cleaned up.
The boys have all stopped eating, mouths open, staring at us from across the room.
Kettle makes a loud noise, a frustrated sigh. “Ugh!”
My limbs feel heavy. I knew it. He hates me. He can’t stand me. I quicken my pace to gather what little I have and get out of here before he shouts at me some more, before it all descends into punches and blood and bruises.
His loud steps approach and I swing around. I lift my hands to my face and drop to my knees, bracing myself for the pain. I tense, ready for strong hands to tear my arms away from my eyes, for fists to seek out my soft skin.
I wait. Wait. Listen.
I drop my arms to the saddest face I’ve ever seen.
“Oh Nora,” he says with breaking hearts and sorrow in his voice. “I’m not going to hit you.”
Relief fills me from my feet to my head, and I cry out softly. I am ripped-up paper. I am stomped-up trash blowing across the sidewalk. I am so broken because of him.
“I don’t want you to leave. I’m angry because you felt the need to lie to me, that you thought I’d turn you in, change my mind about you after I learned who you were. I’m not that guy. Your father is a bad man and no amount of money would ever make up for that. You hear me?” he says. “Christopher Deere is a bad man, and he needs to answer for what he’s done to you.”
These words are old and new. I know them, I’ve felt them, but for the first time in my life, I really listen. I open my ears, my eyes, and my heart. Kettle is right. Christopher Deere is a bad man and until I face him, this will never be over. It all leads back to him. This is all his fault.
I nod, sniffing, and trying to slow my breathing. Kelpie runs over to me, his face covered in sprinkles from the donut he just ate. “What’s wrong with Nora?” he asks, innocently looking up at Kettle.
Kettle leans down and wipes the crumbs from Kelpie’s lips. “Her name is Kite now.”
I’m a King.
I think I can talk. A calm is settling over me. A resolution is solidifying inside. Kettle’s warm expression extends over me.
“Kite—I like it. But it’s not as good as Kelpie,” Kelpie says proudly. “What was your name, Kettle, you know, before you became a King?” he asks, his eyes sleepy.
Kettle smiles. “I’ve had a lot of names. But I think my very first name was Hiro,” he says it as if it’s new to him too, like it’s the first time he’s ever said it out loud.
Hiro. It’s perfect.
46. PRETEND
KETTLE
These feet don’t go anywhere. So how come I feel like we’re flying? That I’m passing over the world, lifting to the stars… and finally touching them.
Two sparks, almost simultaneous, growing to firelight dancing up the walls.
She sits up, the blanket curled around her like ripples in a puddle, her hands planted on either side. I can’t sleep either.
There are so many things she hasn’t told me. So many secrets. She glances my way, her lips parted in a sigh I’ve come to recognize. The one that means she beating herself up. We stand and meet in the middle of the room. A candle flickers by her bed and by mine, the light arcing out in fading circles and nudging us closer together.
I take a step. She takes a step.
“Can’t sleep?” I ask. She nods, hair falling over her eyes. I want to touch it and wind it carefully over her ear, but with her, I never know what’s too much, too far. She grabs it herself and twists it together in one hand, pulling it over her shoulder. In her silence are words I need to find. Understand.
We stay in this never land between our two beds. My eyes fall to the back of the tunnel, the pile of cracked stones and slabs of concrete. I don’t want her in my room, or Kin’s. We move to the neutral, broken space and sit down on the floor.
Her eyes lift to mine as if to say, ‘Now what?’ as she plays with the pearl button on her blouse, which is now un-tucked and hanging over a far-too-loose pair of my pants.
I give her a smile. “Tell me about yourself, your life,” I say, slightly afraid of the answer. But I need to know.
“My sister, Frankie, was my life. After my mother died, I swore I’d protect her.” She shakes her head, her eyes hollowing into deep pools of liquid amber. “I tried. But I didn’t do a very good job.”
“Does he…?” I glance up from my crossed legs.
“Once, when she was a baby. And that day, the day I was at the subway station with you and Kin, well, it was because he was about to hurt her again, and I stopped him. I was the shield. I tried to run away with her.” She puts her hand to her head. “I was in no condition to run away.”
I wince at her words, the honesty in them, the way her body goes rigid and yet shakes at the same time.
“Let me help you find her,” I say again, leaning in, my hand wanting to touch her face, feel the blush under her skin on my palm.
She shakes her head. “No. He would destroy you, everything you’ve built here.” She gestures around the tunnel. “Please, Kettle.” Her eyes are rimmed with moisture, and I back off. Her heart is like a ribbon. I have to be so careful not to step on it, snag it, and disrupt the delicate rhythm of it rolling in. In and away from me.
“My life.” She sighs the word like it’s too much and not enough. “You want to know about my life. Well, the truth is, it wasn’t all bad,” she says, changing the subject, and I let her. There’ll be time to discuss her sister later. “Some parts of my life were wonderful.” She looks to the roof, dust instead of stars in her eyes. “There were friends, school, Frankie…” Her voice trails in sadness and she jerks away from the feeling. “And dances.” She clasps her hands together and smiles. “Oh, I miss dances.”
I snort, push my sleeves up, and lean back on my forearms. She watches me, her eyes on my bare skin, and I wonder what she’s thinking. “Dances. Really? What’s to miss?” My experience with dances was one forced event in the camps where we watched the grownups awkwardly shift in lines to scratchy music. It didn’t look very enjoyable.
She releases the button she’s been playing with and smirks. “Says someone who’s clearly never been to one.”
“How do you know that?” I say, raising an eyebrow and touching my chest, mock offended.
She laughs. It’s starlight in a jar. I blink slowly. “Oh, I can tell just by looking at you, the way you move. You,” she says, pointing at me accusingly. “Can’t dance.”
The candlelight twinkles like it’s chuckling at me. “I can dance,” I say, not sure why I’m lying to defend myself. I’ve never danced in my life.
She stands up and beckons me with her finger, and I think there’s something wrong with my heart. It’s hurting… but the pain feels good.
She looks like a pirate’s cabin boy, shirt billowing around her small waist, ill-fitting pants rolled over at her hips to stop them from falling down. She points her bare foot at me. “Prove it!”
Shit!
I cough and stand nervously. I don’t know what to do wi
th my hands, so I put them behind my back. She giggles. Touches me. Runs her fingers lightly down my arms until she finds my hands. She grasps my wrists and I gulp as she places one on the small dip between her hips and her ribs, extending the other out like the bow of a boat. Her hand in mine.
I follow her small steps and we wind in circles, avoiding the clumps of debris, painting patterns in the dust.
I stare at my socks and her narrow bare feet, listening to the swish of them across the dirt. “You know, this is pretty weird without music,” I mutter, looking up for a moment and suddenly losing my balance.
She exhales and brings us back to equilibrium. She starts humming softly. It’s a song I’ve heard before, but I pretend it’s the first time. Her voice is sweet, cracked and croaky, but in tune as she gazes at the ground and leads us up and down the back of the tunnel.
This moment is killing me. I don’t want it, but I do. Because I know it won’t be enough and it’s all I’ll get.
The end of the song is coming. It rises and rises and then softly peters out. We look at each other, understanding that something is changing between us, and we have to decide whether to let it. Please, let it.
She sings the last few bars. “And if you sing this melody, you’ll be pretending just like me. The world is mine. It can be yours, my friend. So why don’t you pretend?”
Her voice is like the dust of a comet’s tail. Full of a thousand things I don’t understand but want to.
She stops and starts to step away. She’s so fragile. Not on the outside. On the outside, her body is strong, tougher than it should have to be. It’s inside that’s very breakable. I’m scared to touch her, but I don’t want to avoid touching her because of what she’s been through. That seems worse.
So I do it, because I want to and I don’t think she doesn’t want me to. Her breath catches as I pull her closer. I just want to press my cheek to hers, feel her skin against mine. There is no music, just the rhythm of two barely functioning hearts trying to reach each other through miles of scar tissue.
She presses her ear to my chest and listens, then she pulls back to meet my eyes, her expression a mixture of confusion and comfort. She breathes out, her lips not wanting to close but not wanting to speak. She settles on a nervous smile and puts her arms around my neck. I inhale and look up at the ceiling, counting the stars I know are up there somewhere, and then rest my cheek in her hair.
Nora & Kettle Page 25