The Unquiet Heart

by Juliet McCarthy

  She felt welcome at the bar in the officers’ club, when the pilots gathered on Friday night to relax. She drank beer out of a ceramic mug with her name on it that was kept on a shelf behind the bar, swapped flying stories with the men. The wives were friendly enough, but she hadn’t been at Misawa long enough for them to trust her. Not that she blamed them. There was an intimacy among the pilots, a camaraderie rooted in mutual dependence and infallible trust from which the wives were inevitably excluded. With the exception of Darlene Washington, they kept a respectful distance. But Darlene was a former “Zoomie,” as graduates of the Air Force Academy were affectionately known, and had spent six years in the military before her marriage. Women pilots were just a variation on women skydivers, flight surgeons, airplane mechanics, police officers, or firefighters.

  Libby congratulated herself on the way she had handled Major Petrowski. As tempted as she was to go through official channels and charge him with harassment, she had succeeded in discouraging his attention by simply ignoring his remarks and avoiding his company, whenever possible. He didn’t like her. (The feeling was mutual.) But he appeared to have lost interest in tormenting her when he didn’t get a response. Yet sometimes she still felt as if she were an outsider, like she had to keep proving herself every time she climbed into the airplane. It was as if there was a suspicion that she didn’t measure up, a mistrust. When she mentioned it to Charlie, he scoffed at the idea, said she was imagining things.

  It was lonely being the only woman in a squadron of such brash, egotistical males. There had been two female officers in the squadron in Iraq, the Intelligence officer and the Chief of Maintenance. Rhoda Norton had been a friendly, sympathetic presence on the flight line, despite her hard-bitten exterior. But at Misawa Libby was surrounded by two dozen talented men, handpicked for the coveted assignment and destined for brilliant careers in the Air Force.

  Every day was a challenge for Libby, not only to get along with all of the pilots — professionally and socially — but to find a niche of acceptance and trust.

  Constantly being singled out for propaganda purposes had not enhanced her popularity. Every VIP who visited the base had to have his picture taken with Libby. She often wondered if she hadn’t been so photogenic whether she would have been dragged out so frequently for the photo ops. The other pilots appeared to take the attention showered on her with good grace and yet she perceived a caustic edge to their casual comments about her celebrity status in the Air Force. “How was the garden party, Libby? Rumor has it General Sato was so impressed with you, he intends to make you an honorary member of the Samurai Squadron. Had lunch with any generals lately? Did you make Time Magazine this month?”

  It wasn’t her imagination that she didn’t fly as often as the other pilots or that she was not advancing toward flight leader status; but short of complaining to the colonel, there was nothing she could do about it. There was a popular saying in Japan that described her situation in the squadron perfectly about the nail that stands out being struck down. It would be, she decided, ultimately to her advantage to keep her worries to herself, to be patient. Things had a way of working out in the end.

  As far as Major Yoshida was concerned, Libby eventually abandoned the prospect of seeing him again when several weeks passed without any word. She wasn’t disappointed exactly. If someone had asked her if she really believed he would follow through with an invitation, she would have said no. Furthermore, she would have admitted that she was relieved. The major was not easy to talk to and she was clueless as to how Japanese men and women related to one another.

  Japanese society had a defined set of rules that guided everyone’s behavior from the cradle to the grave. As a foreigner, she knew she was at a disadvantage. Even her size conspired against her, for everything from the seats on the trains to the size of the shower stalls were manufactured to suit the dimensions of the average Japanese. Libby towered over virtually all the women and most of the men. (The major was an exception. He was exceptional in his ability to speak English, as well, and in his striking looks.)

  Charlie was a pleasant diversion and she was grateful for his friendship, but life in Misawa was beginning to feel as confining as it had in the Middle East. Libby didn’t want to return home with only a few tawdry souvenirs to remind her of the three years she had spent in Japan. Why study the language if the only Japanese people she met were the cleaning lady and the janitor?

  Major Yoshida had every intention of seeing Libby again. He simply hadn’t worked up the courage to call her on the telephone. It was one thing to speak English to a foreigner, face to face. Quite another to try to carry on a conversation over the phone when you could not rely on body language or facial expressions for illumination. Telephones required a competency in the language the major felt he was sorely lacking.

  If he didn’t call soon, Libby would forget all about him — if she hadn’t done so already. And he was desperate to see her again. He wasn’t sure why, when they were so obviously ill-suited. But try as he might, he could not stop thinking about her. He chided himself on his preoccupation with the American captain, reminded himself of all of her shortcomings — her height, her vulgar dimensions — which if he had been honest with himself was the primary reason he couldn’t forget her — the volume and tenor of her voice, her strong hands and man-size feet.

  He compared her relentlessly to Japanese women and found her wanting on all specifications.

  Thirty-year-old men did not waste their time fantasizing about a woman, a gaijin at that, like a foolish adolescent mooning over some pop star. Perhaps if he saw her again he would come to his senses and could safely ignore the photograph of the four pilots General Sato had had framed and hung on his wall. Every time Kojiro walked into the general’s office he was confronted with Libby’s smiling face, next to his sour grimace.

  With that objective in mind, Major Yoshida finally tapped Libby’s number on his cell phone.

  Libby heard the phone ringing just as she stepped out of the shower. She was tempted to ignore it, but on the off-chance it was a summons from the squadron, she grabbed a towel and dashed into the bedroom. For a moment, she thought she was too late, as there was no response on the other end.

  “Hello? Hello?” she repeated impatiently. Libby was just about to hang up the receiver when she heard the deep, unmistakable voice of Major Yoshida.

  “Ah, Captain Com-er-ford. It is Major Yoshida.”

  “Yes, I recognize your voice.”

  “Ah so. You, you haven’t forgotten me?” He sounded surprised that she remembered him.

  “No,” Libby said, as she struggled to anchor the towel around her shivering body. “I thought it was you who had forgotten all about me.”

  “I could not forget a woman who flies the F-16,” was the closest Kojiro could come to admitting that it was impossible to get her out of his mind without losing his composure.

  “When you did not answer the telephone … When you took so long to answer the telephone, I was afraid you were out.”

  “I didn’t hear it ringing. I was in the shower.”

  “Shower?” Libby could hear a sharp intake of breath, the deep growl in the back of his throat Kojiro made when he was perplexed. Perhaps he had misunderstood? Some people could speak a foreign language better than they could understand it.

  “Shower,” she repeated. “I was taking a shower.”

  Another long pause.

  Libby was so cold she was about to cut the major’s call short when he cleared his throat and resumed the conversation.

  “I was wanting to see you again. For dinner. If that is still agreeable?” He added, as if he expected her to decline the invitation.

  “It is. Agreeable.” Libby hesitated. “I’d like to see you again.”

  “Ah, then Saturday evening? If you do not have any other plans.”

  “I do not ha
ve any other plans, Kojiro.”

  “Ah.” Another audible sigh of relief, that made Libby smile. “I’ll send a taxi to your quarters at 7:30.”

  “A taxi?”

  “Hai, a taxi. Arigato gozaimasu. Goodnight, Captain Comerford,” he said and hung up.

  Libby went back into the bathroom to hang up the wet towel and comb her hair. Perhaps accepting the dinner invitation had not been such a good idea after all. In reality, she knew very little about the major. She had made assumptions about him that she had no way of verifying — that he was single for instance, merely because he had refrained from mentioning a wife or children. And yet it was common knowledge that Japanese men often led lives separate from their families, especially the officers stationed at Misawa. Their wives were reluctant to leave Tokyo for the grubby farming community or subject their children to what were considered inferior schools.

  Libby frowned at her foggy image in the mirror. Maybe Kojiro had a wife in Tokyo and had just asked her out for a good time. She would know soon enough. In the meantime, she had something to look forward to besides another boring Saturday night at the O Club pretending she was having a good time.

  The taxi arrived promptly at 7:30 on Saturday evening. Libby was watching out her window as the gleaming black car pulled up in front of the BOQ. Before switching off the light, she paused to take a final look at herself in the mirror. Instead of her standard blazer and slacks she was wearing one of the two dresses she owned, a conservative, navy blue silk. For some inexplicable reason she felt compelled to impress upon the major that she had not lost touch completely with her femininity, despite the masculine nature of her work. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Japanese women were so dainty and petite, but she was certainly not in competition with a woman, real or imagined, for the major’s attention, Libby assured herself. So why had she gone to so much trouble with her appearance? If Charlie saw her, he wouldn’t know what to make of the mascara and blush and glossy lipstick.

  She ran a comb through her hair and blotted her lips. It was amazing what a little make-up and clothes could do, she thought as she appraised her looks. She was so used to seeing herself in a shapeless flight suit and lumbering boots that the image in the mirror looked like a stranger.

  When Libby emerged from the building, the automatic door on the taxi swung open and the white-gloved driver indicated she should get in. The back seat was empty. Apparently, the major wasn’t taking any chances being seen with a gaijin.

  The restaurant, which resembled a Swiss chalet, was several miles out of town, at the end of an unpaved road, in the middle of a forest. Libby rode in the spacious backseat, eyes fixed on an ornament bobbing up and down on the dashboard, wondering what had ever possessed her to accept the major’s invitation. Curiosity? Boredom? A little of both, perhaps, and an unacknowledged attraction she was too chary to admit.

  Major Yoshida was waiting on the front porch when the taxi pulled up, smoking a cigarette. The door flung open and he watched as Libby scooted awkwardly out of the cab. The very least he could do was come down and give her a hand, she thought, instead of standing and gaping at her, but he just stood there, one hand resting nonchalantly on the railing until the taxi disappeared down the driveway. Then he discarded his cigarette, descended the steps, and bowed.

  “Good evening. Libby,” he said slowly. (He had been practicing saying her name, repeating the intransigent consonant ‘L’ over and over again like a school boy.) “I am very happy you could join me.” He sounded like he was reciting phrases from an English textbook, his deep voice a monotone.

  Libby forced a polite smile and extended her hand. Major Yoshida took it reluctantly and gave it a brisk shake. Then he turned abruptly and mounted the stairs. Libby gritted her teeth and followed.

  Once inside, they were greeted by the attentive owner who ushered them to table in the far corner of the room, overlooking the wooded hillside.

  “It is a fine view in the daytime, but at night … ” Kojiro paused. The only thing they could see were their own reflections mirrored in the plate-glass window, two ghostly figures, framed like a portrait, staring at one another’s image.

  Dressed in civilian clothes, the dignified major looked more like a diplomat than a fighter pilot, Libby thought. The dark business suit and starched white shirt enhanced his smooth, ivory complexion and piercing eyes, making him look older, more uncompromising. More Japanese.

  Unnerved by Libby’s scrutiny, Kojiro shifted his attention to the array of cutlery set out on the table in front of him. He was always dismayed by the number of eating utensils a westerner needed to transfer food from plate to mouth when chopsticks were more convenient and practical. With chopsticks you didn’t have to agonize over what fork to use or which hand to hold it in. But then he was of the opinion that Westerners went out of their way to make life more difficult for themselves as well as the rest of the world. In Japan, every man, woman, and child knew exactly what was expected of him and behaved accordingly. It made for a much simpler and tranquil life.

  Kojiro did not feel very tranquil at the moment, gazing across the table at Libby. He couldn’t think of anything to say to relieve the awkward silence. He was relying on her to do all the talking. Most of his foreign acquaintances never shut up, particularly the women. All he had to do was nod his head occasionally in agreement. But she just sat there with her head bowed, studying the menu.

  He lit a cigarette to calms his nerves, noticed Libby’s grimace at the enveloping smoke and stubbed it out in the ashtray. Kojiro had forgotten about Americans’ preoccupation with their health. Japanese society was more indulgent. There was scarcely a venue in the entire country where a man couldn’t light up and enjoy a cigarette. He tucked the package of Marlboros in his inside pocket. It was going to be a long night.

  Kojiro hoped that Libby was suitably impressed with his choice of restaurants. He had selected it specifically because it catered to western tastes and he had no idea whether or not Libby liked Japanese food. Most Americans were appalled at some of the delicacies the Japanese savored. The Tyrolean ambiance was charming, the cuisine reputed to be as exceptional as it was expensive. Without coming out directly and saying so, he wanted to let her know, that where she was concerned, money was no object. He was prepared to lavish as much as necessary on the American pilot on the vague assumption that she would want to reciprocate his generosity in one way or another. He thought of it in terms of an exchange of gifts — the greater the value bestowed by the benefactor, the greater the obligation incurred by the beneficiary.

  So far, Libby hadn’t given any indication that she was aware of his intentions. Other than accept the dinner invitation and show up at the appointed time, she had hardly said two words to him. But Kojiro figured she wasn’t some naïve school girl. Libby was a woman of the world — a man’s world, at that — and Western women were known for being as sexually adventurous as they were experienced.

  He glanced sheepishly across the table. Most beautiful women were self-conscious about their beauty but Libby appeared to be unaware of it or else indifferent. Kojiro had been hoping she would wear something more provocative. Her dress was so conservative with its long sleeves, high neckline and ankle-length skirt, it almost looked as if she had gone out of her way to disguise her figure, but he couldn’t credit that. Covering herself up just made her look that much more tantalizing.

  The uncomfortable silence was relieved when the waiter came to take their order. Kojiro insisted Libby order the most expensive entrée on the menu to complement the bottle of outrageously priced French wine the waiter suggested.

  Libby wasn’t quite sure what to make of his largesse, but she was touched by his earnest endeavors to please her, it had been such a long time since she allowed herself to be indulged by an adoring male. So much for the inscrutable Asian, Libby thought to herself. There was no mistaking Kojiro’s admiration,
he hadn’t taken his eyes off of her from the moment she arrived. But she didn’t feel threatened by his attention, as much as amused. It was hard to take someone as uptight and unsmiling as the major very seriously. Besides, he was Japanese … .

  “You do not look like a fighter pilot,” Kojiro blurted out gruffly. The wine, two glasses of which Kojiro had drunk with uncharacteristic abandon before the entrée had even been served, had loosened his tongue as well as blunted his discretion.

  “Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?” Libby asked. “Or as an admonition?”

  “Admonition?”

  “You don’t approve of women pilots.”

  He shook his head. “I do not think women should fly in combat. It is very dangerous. It also requires, not only skill, but daring and aggression. Not very admirable traits for a woman,” he added, just in case she missed his point.

  “But acceptable for a man?”

  “It is part of our nature,” Kojiro nodded smugly.

  “And what of a woman’s nature?”

  Kojiro poured himself another glass of wine. Either Libby did not know that in Japan the woman was obligated to do the honors for a gentleman or else she thought he was over-indulging. In either case, he was forced to refill their glasses.

  “And what of a woman’s nature?”

  “Well, of course, women are … ” He squeezed his eyes shut in concentration, trying to recall the English adjectives that would describe what Kojiro considered essential female attributes. “They should be gentle and feminine and, and … ”

  “And you think a woman who flies an F-16 lacks those instincts. Am I right?” Libby interrupted. He could tell by her tone of voice, that she wasn’t pleased by the implication.

  Kojiro shifted in his seat. That was exactly what he thought, but he didn’t want to insult Libby by admitting it. Not if he hoped to see her again.

  “I am sure there are exceptions … ” He demurred.