The major gave him the address of Otami’s parents. “I’m sorry for any inconvenience that this may have caused you, Mr. Coleman. And you have my deepest sympathy, sir.”
Moss’s vision blurred as he stared at Riley’s picture on his desk. How could the boy have done such a despicable thing . . . married a Japanese, when he knew how his father felt about them? His fist banged the desk so hard that Riley’s picture fell and glass shattered all over the polished floor. What the hell had happened to “like father like son”? Where had he gone wrong? A Jap! A goddamn Jap!
Major Henry had said there was a son living in Japan. Well, by God, no grandson of his was going to grow up in that hellhole, living on rice and picking in garbage cans! He’d go there and bring back the boy. Raise him here at Sunbridge. This was Riley’s flesh and blood. He could learn to live with the rest of it. And a new baby in the house might be just what Billie needed. Moss smiled grimly. For Riley’s baby son she would come back. He’d make book on it.
Moss left the following morning for San Francisco. From San Francisco he caught a Pan Am flight to Guam, and from there he flew to Tokyo.
After checking into a hotel, Moss headed straight for a bar and downed three stiff drinks in quick succession. The liquor didn’t help to steady his nerves. He hated this land and he hated every Japanese that walked the earth.
The doorman at the hotel flagged down a cab for him. Moss showed him the address and the driver’s eyebrows shot up. “Yes, sir,” he said in polite, stilted English.
“You understand English?” Moss barked.
“Yes, sir, I studied at UCLA for four years. Is there something you wish to know about Japan?” he asked politely.
“I know all there is to know about Japan. I don’t want to know any more. How far is that address from here?”
“Not too far. Perhaps fifteen minutes, depending on traffic.”
In spite of himself Moss couldn’t help but ask, “If you studied at UCLA, what are you doing driving a taxi?”
“Japan is a poor country. It is difficult to make ends meet when you have a family to support. I have three sons to educate and that takes much money. It is not a dishonorable profession. Is this your first visit to Japan?”
“No. I was here once before. This will be my last visit,” Moss replied harshly.
From time to time the driver looked into the rearview mirror at the brooding American face. He’d never seen such misery in a human being before. He concentrated on his driving, leaving Moss to his dark thoughts.
“Why are you stopping?”
“This is the address you wanted. See, the numbers are on the gate. You must ring the bell and someone will admit you. I bring many customers here.”
“Customers? Is it a brothel? It looks like a goddamn palace.”
“I beg your pardon, sir. I understand your words, but what makes you think that this is a brothel? It is the home of Mr. Shadaharu Hasegawa. Mr. Hasegawa owns three newspapers in Tokyo. This is his city home. Did you make a mistake in the address?”
“No, this is the address.” Moss paid the man in American currency and knew the tip was outrageous, but he had no desire to quibble over price. He felt uncertain now as he stood outside the palatial house. Hasegawa was the right name. He jabbed at the bell with a blunt finger. The gate swung open and Moss walked through. He turned at the sound of the well-oiled hinges closing the gate: he was locked in. His forehead was beaded with perspiration as he waited in one of the most luxurious houses he had ever seen. This was no ricky-ticky rice paper shack. There was money here.
It was like a parade. First came a rolypoly man followed by a miniature little woman who must be the rolypoly man’s wife. Behind them were eight young women.
Once they were all lined up, they bowed on a cue from the round man. “Welcome to my home, Mr. Coleman. Please, you will follow me and I will introduce you to my family.” There was nothing for Moss to do but obey. This was not what he’d expected.
Mr. Hasegawa motioned for Otami to step forward. “This is my oldest daughter, your son’s wife.”
“Under what law?” Moss demanded cruelly.
“American law,” Mr. Hasegawa said, enunciating carefully. “A legal marriage. There are certificates, if you wish to view them.”
“I wish.”
The Japanese man clapped his hands and a young servant appeared. He spoke quietly and the girl minced her way from the room, her head bowed, her hands clasped in front of her. She returned minutes later with a number of papers in a manila folder, and Moss scrutinized each of them.
It was all real.
“You wish to see your grandson?”
Moss nodded. He hated himself for staring at the girl, Otami, who was trying hard not to stare herself. Again, Mr. Hasegawa clapped his hands and this time merely nodded. The little maid returned minutes later with a fat cherub of a baby. Mr. Hasegawa indicated that Moss could step forward to view the infant. “I believe, as does my daughter, that the child has your nose. It is most remarkable.”
Moss felt his throat constrict. Riley’s son. He could see the resemblance in this placid, sleeping baby. It was enough. “I want to take the child back to Texas,” he said coolly.
In the blink of an eye Otami stepped between her child and Moss. She said nothing, but her eyes implored her father.
“That is impossible, Mr. Coleman. The child belongs here with his mother and family. It was your son’s wish.”
“What do you know of my son’s wishes? Don’t think for one minute I’m going to buy that hogwash. That child is a Coleman. He belongs in Texas. Not here! Never here!”
“That is impossible. The child needs his mother. He will lack for nothing here. I believe I can match your income, if that is what’s worrying you. Please, you will not insult us by offering to buy the child. That was your next move, was it not?”
Moss blustered, “You don’t buy humans.” But in his heart he knew that that was exactly what he had been going to say. “I’ll go to court,” he threatened.
“Your American courts have no jurisdiction here in Japan..... Please, it is not our desire to have trouble with Riley’s family. We can all contribute to the child. You and your wife will be welcome in my house at any time. My daughter will be your daughter. It is fair and just.”
“I don’t want your damn daughter. I want my grandson. I won’t leave here without him.”
Otami stepped forward. “Mr. Coleman, Riley and I spoke of this many times. It was his wish that the child remain with me. When his time was up in the navy, he had planned to make his home here in Japan. I am speaking the truth to you. It is what Riley wanted.”
“What you made him want. How did you do it? What tricks did you use to snare my son? Riley would never agree to any of this!”
“If what you say is true, then why am I here with my son, and why didn’t you know of our marriage and our son? I assume the navy informed you. Riley himself did not want anyone in Texas to know. It is true, Mr. Coleman. And I did not trick your son. I fell in love with him and he fell in love with me. And our baby—Riley and I discussed this—our baby is named after Riley and my father. He is Riley Shadaharu Coleman.”
It was the last bitter straw for Moss. Not to have his grandchild named after him. A damn Japanese name that he couldn’t even pronounce.
Mr. Hasegawa stepped closer to Moss. “Please, Mr. Coleman, do not bring dishonor on yourself in front of my family. In my newspapers every day we have one reporter or another writing about ugly Americans. For all our sakes, do not act in this manner. You must accept the situation. Our home is yours whenever you wish.”
“Go to hell,” Moss barked, then he turned on his heel and left the house. There had to be a way. If necessary, he could kidnap the kid. Then he looked at the iron gates and knew it for the idle threat it was. He was beaten. He’d lost not only the battle, but the war as well.
He had nothing to do but think for eighteen hours on the long flight home. In the end he decided to k
eep the news of Riley Shadaharu to himself. No one would ever know of his humiliation. Not as long as he was alive, anyway.
When Moss returned to the United States he was a man driven by grief and rage. Besieged by the loss of his beloved son, he turned to the bourbon as though it were an old friend. Beset with rage over the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of the Hasegawas, he immersed himself in his work. He knew that he could have his grandson if he was willing to compromise; a basic kindness and acceptance would reward him with the only piece of Riley that was left in this world. But he hated and feared the Japanese; and he would not have anything to do with the child unless all ties to his mother’s heritage had been severed.
Billie was aware of Moss’s turmoil and tried to comfort him; she believed he was blaming himself and his aircraft for Riley’s death. Moss never bothered to enlighten her. His reasoning was simple, at least in his opinion: he knew that if he told her, Billie would rush to Japan to embrace that child. And he did not want her to have what he denied himself—the comfort of loving Riley’s son. He knew he was selfish. It was something he’d always known. It was something he could live with.
Seth watched what was left of his world crumble about him. A week after his son’s return from Japan, he suffered two small strokes back to back that left him virtually incapacitated and entirely dependent upon Agnes. His speech was now slurred, but the timbre of his voice hadn’t changed—he ranted and raved, cursed and cajoled her. He thought nothing of waking her in the middle of the night for a drink of water. He resented her because she was alive and well and could function on her own. He hated his deformity and made her pay for it by tormenting and ridiculing her in any way he could.
In the privacy of her room, Agnes broke down and cried. A victim of her own making, she could do no more than look after his health by day and plot his death by night.
That spring, Agnes made up her mind that she was going to get out from under one way or another. On the first truly warm day when the windows could be opened, she put her plan into action. “We’re going for a ride today, Seth. It’s time you got some fresh air. You’re absolutely shriveling up to nothing. I insist.”
“Insist all you please. I ain’t going nowhere. Get it through your head, Aggie, that I’m confined to this room and that’s where you and I are going to stay. Fetch me some coffee and read me a paper.”
“Not today. Today the doctor said you were to go outdoors. It’s an order, Seth. He said if you don’t do as he says, he’s discharging you as his patient.”
“I’d like to see him try. I’ll cut off all endowments to his fancy hospital and where will that leave him? No ride.”
Seth watched Agnes out of the corner of his eye. She was taking his refusal just a little too well. She must be up to something. He’d have to pay close attention to see what it was.
With Agnes’s diligent care and the doctor’s daily visits, Seth began gradually to show signs of improvement. Each day, Agnes offered to take Seth for a ride in the country. The day he finally accepted, she stared at him with a stupid look on her face. “Well, don’t stand there—get someone to come and help me into the car.”
Agnes shifted from one foot to the other, her hands twisting at the pearls at her neck. “Are you sure? Why do you want to go today? What made you change your mind?”
“That damn fool doctor, that’s who. He wants me in his office to give me some kind of newfangled test. That’s where we’re going. Don’t get any ideas about stopping off at department stores. We’re going to his office and then we’re coming home. You got that, Agnes?”
“Yes, Seth, I have it.... You could have given me some notice, you know. The chauffeur isn’t here this morning. Moss forgot some papers and wanted them brought into the office. And don’t think for a minute that I’ll drive you.”
“That’s exactly what I think, old woman,” Seth demanded contrarily. “Now go get yourself ready. I don’t want to be ashamed of you. How a woman can let herself go the way you have is beyond me. Have you no pride?”
“I have pride, Seth. Make no mistake about it. I’ll just be a few minutes.” Agnes turned and left the room, her back taller and straighter than Seth had seen it in a long time.
Up in her room, Agnes picked up the house phone and called the garage. “I want you to go into town and pick up Mr. Coleman’s prescription at the pharmacy,” she told the voice at the other end. “Take the ranch truck and leave the limousine.” Her eyes darted to the clock. “I’ll need that prescription before noon, so you’ll have to hurry.”
When she replaced the receiver in the cradle she sank onto the edge of her bed, facing the window where she could observe the driveway. Within a few moments she saw the dark blue ranch truck churning up the dust. Quieting her pounding heart, Agnes picked up her coat and walked down the stairs.
As she helped Seth into his coat and wheeled him down the ramp they’d erected over the front stairs, Agnes felt the perspiration break out on her upper lip. Hearing her quick shallow gasps, Seth tormented, “Gettin’ old, hey, Aggie? You can be replaced. Yes, indeed, that’s what I’m thinkin’ of doin’, Aggie. Put you out to pasture, is what I’ll do. Or maybe I’ll just put you out!” He cackled gleefully, spitefully. Agnes’s hands tightened on the wheelchair grips. She pushed him as far as the garage, then steered him toward the side door.
“Whatcha doin’, you crazy old woman? You can’t get this contraption through there. Go inside and open the big door and get me in that way.”
Silently, deliberately, Agnes squeezed the chair through the side door, struggling with it between the fleet of automobiles. “Damn fool woman, it’s easier to heft me in the backseat from out there!” He jabbed a finger toward the outside.
“Shut up, Seth. We’ll do this my way or not at all. Now are you going to complain the day away, or are you going to help me?” She swung his arm over her shoulder and lifted; Seth obliged by swinging himself into the Cadillac.
“Fold that contraption and put it back here with me,” he snarled. “Damn fool woman does everything ass-backward.” Scowling, Seth reached into his breast pocket for his cigars, bit off the tip, and proceeded to light up. “C’mon, hurry up. We ain’t got all day!” he scolded between puffs.
Agnes pretended not to hear. Her movements were slow and deliberate as she closed the door and sat behind the wheel to start the engine. The Cadillac roared to life. “You just sit tight, Seth. There’s something I have to get from the house. I’ll be right back.”
“For crissake, Aggie, turn off the engine while you’re gone, or at least open the big door!” His gaze narrowed when he saw her remove the automatic garage door opener from over the sun visor. “Aggie, I said shut the damn engine off!”
“I’ll be right back, Seth. Sit tight. You’re in no position to give orders.”
“The hell you say!” Seth roared. “Shut that damn engine off! Open the door, either one! What the hell are you tryin’ to do?” With surprising strength and agility, Seth lumbered forward and reached over the seat, grabbing Agnes by the back of her head, his clawlike fingers digging into her scalp before locking on her hair.
She struggled, trying to pull herself free. His strength was terrible, so unexpected. Agnes gasped for breath; Seth’s voice roared in her ears. Her feet shifted, searching for purchase to brace herself against his assault. He was shaking her by the hairs of her head, pushing her backward and forward. Agnes’s elbow accidentally struck the gearshift, tripping the transmission into drive. The Cadillac shot forward, crashing into the back wall, destroying the shelves mounted there and sending their contents shattering to the concrete floor. A spare container of gasoline puddled out of its bent and cracked container.
“Look what you’ve done, you stupid bitch!” Seth yelled. “What are you trying to do, kill us both?”
The words sent a chill up Agnes’s spine. The gasoline, Seth’s lit cigar. Quickly she turned off the ignition, and the engine died. “Your cigar! Where’s your cigar?” she cried
. She scrambled from the car and fell to her knees, searching.
“For crissake, Aggie, find that damn thing. It must have rolled out when you started your hysterics.”
The oily smell of gasoline stung her nostrils as it puddled and rivered under the front end of the car. There it was! She reached for the smoldering object—a second too late.
“You’ve done it this time, Aggie!” Seth bellowed. It was the very last thing she would ever hear.
The funeral was small and private. Neither Billie nor Moss could face a large, curious crowd. Amelia could not come home for the funeral and neither could Susan. Concert bookings. Maggie had other plans. Only Billie, Moss, and Sawyer attended. Agnes was laid to rest in the family cemetery beside Jessica. Seth, as he had requested, was buried in an unmarked grave beside his old horse, Nessie. In the small cemetery stood a marker in memory of Riley Seth Coleman. They had never found enough of her son to bring him home. It was the first time Billie had seen the white marble plaque, and she gave in to her grief. Moss stood dry-eyed, staring off into the distance.
PART IV
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
All the partings, all the eternal separations, and all of them without a single good-bye. Riley, Seth, Agnes. Even a grandson, a poor substitute for Riley and one that Moss doubted he could have ever come to love and proudly show off to the world, was lost to him because of uncompromising prejudice and ignorant pride. Maggie and Susan counted among the losses, their lives twisting and turning them away from Sunbridge. Amelia, her life in Europe—time and change had separated sister from brother. And second only to Riley was the loss of Billie. Even though the divorce had not been finalized at the time of Seth’s funeral, he had lost her.
Moss and Billie had been drawn together in mutual grief. He had pleaded with her to move back to Sunbridge; to give their marriage another chance. Recognizing her own need for continuity in her life and wanting to share these black times with someone who was also touched with the same grief, Billie had complied. The divorce had been put on hold. Resuming a marriage whose ashes were long cold was difficult at best, if not impossible, but loyalty to the past and what they had shared prompted Billie’s return.
Texas Rich Page 61