by Hiromi Goto
We were parked at S-coulee, drinking lemon gin. I had opened his clumsily wrapped present and now his hands were inside my blouse and mine around his neck. He smelled like Dial soap.
“Do you like the T-shirt?” Hank asked.
“Yes, thank you. I’m sorry, I didn’t get you a present for our three week anniversary.”
“You could give me something now.”
“Oh Hank. I already told you, I don’t want to go all the way yet.”
“We don’t have to. Aren’t there special things you can do without going all the way?” he asked, looking at me with half-closed eyes.
“What do you mean, special things?”
“You know,” he said, squirming in his trousers. “Like Oriental sex.”
“What’s Oriental sex?” This was a first.
“I don’t know. You should know. You’re Oriental aren’tchya?” He was getting grouchy with my obtuseness, my unlearned innate sexuality.
“Not really,” I said. “I think I’m Canadian.”
“Ahhh, you don’t have to be embarrassed. I won’t tell anybody if we do stuff.”
“What stuff?” I was going to lose it. And Hank was really nice, at heart, too.
“You know. The Oriental kinky stuff. Like on Shōgun.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, tucking my blouse back into my jeans.
“Hey, where are you going?”
I threw the T-shirt anniversary present in his face. I didn’t even know why I was so mad.
“Hyuck, hyuck.” I said.
“Are you laughing in your sleep or are you awake?” he asked.
“I’m awake,” I said, stroking his smooth chest with lazy fingers.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, I was just remembering my first real boyfriend.”
“When you were at university?” Curious with a lover’s desire to hear of intimacy before him.
“No!” I laughed. “Junior high school!”
“Ehhhhhh. Boy, you really start young around here.”
“I guess. I can’t speak for all the small towns, but most places that are small, there isn’t much to do except drink and have sex. Or at least make out.”
“Did you have sex with your first real boyfriend?” he asked, lying on his side with his chin in the curve of his palm. Facing me.
“Nah. I might have if he hadn’t pissed me off, but he did. Besides, he had terrible taste in T-shirts. How old were you when you had a real girlfriend?”
“As old as I am now,” he smiled.
“Are you trying to be cute?”
“I would never be cute for you.”
“Do you want to have Oriental sex?” I asked, posing in what I thought could be seen as an Oriental gesture.
“What’s Oriental sex?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, “but I thought I would make it up as I go along.”
“Let’s make it up together.”
I was, of course, snubbed by everyone for two weeks. Even Julie, even Patricia, couldn’t forgive me, he had bought me a present after all.
“You’re too touchy,” Julie hissed. She wasn’t even supposed to be talking to me but she was too furious to keep up the silent treatment.
“What’s your problem, anyways? Hank’s all broken up about you and he didn’t even do anything! You blew it and no one’s going to go out with you now.”
That, at least, turned out to be true. I never went out with another Nanton boy ever again. I messed around with a couple of out of town boys from High River and Vulcan. But not for keeps. Meanwhile, my Oriental hormones were running rampant, so to speak. Hard to grow up in agricultural hell, in cowboy purgatory.
“What’s happened to Hank? He never calls anymore and I haven’t seen him for at least two weeks, I’m sure,” Mom said.
“News flash! Muriel Tonkatsu and Hank Hardy broke up three weeks ago. Tap tap taptaptaptap.”
“Oh Muriel! He was such a nice boy too, even though his family goes to the Church of Christ. What happened?”
“Nothing you’d care to hear about.”
“That’s no way to talk! Of course I care about what’s going on in your life! Any mother would. You know you can talk to me about anything.”
“Mom, he wanted to have Oriental sex with me.”
“Oh, well, the Bible says we should wait, ummmm. . .” she trailed away.
Obāchan and I, our eyes collided, and we began to laugh. Mom’s pots and pans a clattering chorus behind us. Our family wasn’t the only “Oriental” family in town. There was Joe and his wife, Jane, and the many other Vietnamese workers at the farm whom I hardly knew at all. Whom I never knew. And there were Chinese-Canadians who’d been around, I was certain, forever. Jim Wu’s family who ran Ginger Jim’s on Main Street and Mrs. Ching with no Mr. Ching. She had three daughters who helped run the grocery store until they left, one by one, to run a gas station in Winnipeg, manage a condominium in Edmonton, and enter law school out east. I don’t know the names of the Ching girls, they graduated when I was just getting into junior high. I only heard stories of what they did when they left town. I knew they went to the same school as I because their class graduation pictures hung on the walls in the hallway. Wearing lilac long dresses with puffed sleeves and thick framed glasses. Looking like decades ago. I couldn’t connect the photos I saw with the stories I had heard. The Ching girls were long gone and I envied them their escape from rural hell.
Jim Wu had four kids, and one of his sons was a year older than me. His name was Shane. Shane Wu. And god, I felt sorry for him, having to live with his name in a cowboy town. With his Asian face. When he was short and tubby with big hands and feet so he looked uncomfortable all the time. Having a name like Shane, playing hockey, but only as a second string goalie. And I never talked with him in my entire life. He never talked with me. Instinct born of fear, I knew that being seen with him would lessen my chances of being in the popular crowd. That Oriental people in single doses were well enough, but any hint of a group and it was all over. I thought I was proud of being Japanese-Canadian, but I was actually a coward. I don’t know what Shane’s reasons were for never talking with me. I never asked.
But we held hands, once, when I was in grade six and he was in grade seven. June, when the clouds swell thick and black from the west and squeeze through the foothills. Around nine at night, and I was riding my bike in town, on my way home from eating supper at Julie’s house. Shane was on the sidewalk, on his way to the restaurant to help his father clean up and close down. The sky crackled dark and sudden and the lightning was right on top of us. The wind was mad, raising dust devils, little pellets of stone. There was a sizzle/crack! and all the streetlights went out. I fell off my bike. I must have yelped or something and Shane stumbled toward me, his foot bumping into my bike. It was so absolutely dark, I couldn’t see his face, I only saw his hand out for me to grab. The lightning scorching the air around us. I reached and Shane pulled me up. I bent down to get my bike, held it up with my right hand, and clutched Shane’s hand with my left. It was darker than an eclipse, or something, I don’t know why, but it was dark enough for me to hold Shane’s hand. He walked me home, in the wind and rain, a mile and a half south west of town. My hand in his, his hand in mine, the wind howling like demons. He never said a single thing and I didn’t say anything either, only pushed my bike awkwardly with my right hand. When he saw me to my door, he turned around without saying good-bye and walked a mile and a half back into town.
I don’t know what happened to Shane. He quit school when he finished grade eleven, I never found out why. His picture doesn’t hang in the hallway of the school. His story isn’t mine to speak.
(Murasaki: Obāchan?
Naoe: Hai?
Murasaki: Obāchan, I don’t know what to say anymore. I don’t know what to ask. Does it even matter?
Naoe: I can’t give you any answers, child. I’m just beginning to find answers of my own. But listen. Why don’t I talk sometimes and you just
move your lips and it will look like you’re the one who’s talking.
Murasaki: That’s a great idea, Obāchan. Thanks.
Naoe: Not at all. You can do the same for me, sometimes.
Murasaki: Sure, Obāchan. I could surely do that.)
When Obāchan left our home forever, Mom had a nervous breakdown. Well, nothing diagnosed or formally said, she just refused to leave her room. She stayed in bed for three months and never opened the curtains. Never turned on the lights. I stayed home from school to take care of her, nothing I was too pleased to do, after all, I was in high school and on the basketball team and not too hot at math, either. I couldn’t afford to miss school if I wanted to keep my grades. But for once in his life, Dad insisted.
“You will stay home to care for your mother.” Dad, who never ordered a thing in his life! He couldn’t even order food at a restaurant, let alone make a command on anyone’s life. I was so shocked, I didn’t even make a fuss. It was arranged I would make up any lost work during the summer holidays. So I stayed home, watched over Mom and tried to make her eat. She just lay like a log in the middle of her bed. At least she got up to pee. At least she didn’t shit her pants. But something changed in me, during the time I spent in the dark with a silent mother. Mother in name but a total stranger. A place I had never tried to move beyond. I wasn’t free from guilt.
She did get up to pee, but she didn’t take a bath. I had to wipe her with a towel to keep her clean. At first, she wore a nightie, like she always did, but I had a hell of a time, propping her body up to get it over her head whenever I wanted to bathe her or change her clothes. And she didn’t try to help. She just lay limply, no words passed her lips. Then I got a brain wave. I ran to Obāchan’s room, the same as when she left it, rummaged through her drawers and came up with her nemaki Japanese night clothes. They were made like robes, and the front was only wrapped around the body to be tied at the sides so that the whole thing could be taken off without pulling anything over the head. I took one into to Mom’s room and held it up.
“Look Mom, this is just perfect! Now we won’t have to jostle you around so much. It’ll be easier to change your clothes and give you a bath, okay?” I didn’t expect her to say anything, she hadn’t said anything for ten days, the day since Obāchan left.
“O… K.”
I was shocked. But I tried not to look surprised.
“Dad said he’d be home early tonight, they’re casing, and picking should just be a half day. There’s supposed to be a chinook tomorrow. It’s about time, it was so cold this morning Dad had to kick the front door open because it was all caked with ice at the bottom. Actually, it’s kinda nice staying home in the winter like this, I mean, it’s too cold to even think.” I chatted away, hoping it would make Mom want to talk to me, but she didn’t say anything else.
“Dad, Mom talked today!” He had come in from the farm, and I was in the kitchen, making macaroni and cheese.
“Really?! What did she say?”
“She said, ‘O… K’.”
“That’s it?” Disappointed.
“At least it’s something! At least you don’t have to sit around here all day in a dark and stinkin’ house with no one to talk to except yourself and a woman who’s turned into a house plant! She should get professional help, but no, make the daughter lose her mind as well. After ten days, I think that ‘O. . . K’ is a bloody breakthrough!”
I was waiting for Dad to yell or shake me or something. After ten long days of winter silence, I wanted something to explode. But he didn’t say anything. He opened his arms wide and I fell into them for the first time.
“Thank you, Muriel,” he said, the words vibrating in his chest, and my throat swelled with salty tears.
After that, I thought Mom might start talking a little. Make a slow progress. But she fell back into silence and nothing I said could make her talk again. I was crushed. I had had visions of me going back to school and parties on weekends and basketball tournaments, but the future looked dim and I became depressed. Not the ideal emotional state for someone who is trying to nurse someone else out of a depression. The house became a hollow thing, the only noise was the sound of dust snaking across the wooden floors. After all those years of Obāchan’s voice. Her language of memory, pain, desire. The silence in our home was so complete our ears rang with the sudden loss of sound. I turned my thoughts inward, and inward yet again.
(Murasaki: Obāchan! Obāchan! OBĀCHAN!
Naoe: Ara! Murasaki-chan?
Murasaki: Obāchan?
Naoe: Hai! Obāchan da yo. Dōshita no, sonnani ōkina koe o dashite?
Murasaki: Oh, Obāchan. Am I losing my mind? I can understand what you’re saying, and how can we be talking anyway?! I must be insane.
Naoe: Ara, Murasaki, that doesn’t sound like the grand-daughter I know and love. There are stranger things in life than two people who are close being able to understand one another.
Murasaki: Yeah, but over distance and time? Not to mention life. You’re dead after all, aren’t you?
Naoe: Of course not! As if I would be ready for death.
Murasaki: But what about the snow? The high windchill factor and everything? There were search parties out for a week and no one found a trace.
Naoe: If an old woman chooses to leave, it’s an easy enough thing to cover one’s tracks. Dead! Mattaku!
Murasaki: Sorry. But you have to admit, you kinda shocked everyone. Especially Mom. She’s kinda lost it.
Naoe: Ara. Is she all right?
Murasaki: No. Not really. I think she’s had a bit of a nervous break down.
Naoe: Ara-raaa. I’m so sorry. It must be hard for you. But harder yet on Keiko. She is so strong of mind, stronger than even me, that she must be awfully hurt to hide inside herself. You must help her, Murasaki.
Murasaki: I’ve been trying. Not very gracefully.
Naoe: You must try harder. What have you been feeding her?
Murasaki: Well, macaroni and cheese. Hot dogs. Stuff like that.
Naoe: Mattaku! Of course she won’t be getting better on food such as that! Have a little sense!
Murasaki: Gee, sorry Obāchan! It’s not as if I ever learned to cook or anything.
Naoe: Don’t be sarcastic! Just listen.
Murasaki: Okay.)
“You switch around in time a lot,” you say, a bowl of coffee resting in your palms. “I get all mixed up. I don’t know in what order things really happened.” You lift the coffee to your lips and slurp at hot liquid. Nibble a dry Italian biscuit and look expectantly up at me.
I tip my chai to my lips, and lick sweet aromatic milk that lingers. I want to just ignore you. You with your dry biscuits and expectations. But it would be rude and you have listened with care and intelligence. You have participated in the story.
“There isn’t a time line. It’s not a linear equation. You start in the middle and unfold outward from there. It’s not a flat surface that you walk back and forth on. It’s like being inside a ball that isn’t exactly a ball, but is really made up of thousands and thousands of small panels. And on each panel, there is a mirror, but each mirror reflects something different. And from where you crouch, if you turn your head up or around or down or sideways, you can see something new, something old, or something you’ve forgotten.”
“Wow,” you say. “Wow, that sounds like some mind bend. Some people might call it madness.”
“Yeah, I guess. But some might call it magic.”
“Abracadabra,” you say. “Shazam! Presto! Open Sesame! Chi chin pui pui! I love peanut butter sandwiches!” you yell, waving your arms in a vaguely mysterious fashion. Everyone in the coffee shop is staring at you and I laugh and laugh until I am crying.
“Dad,” I said, cutting up some fruit and mixing it with yogurt, “you have to watch Mom for a while today. I need the car to do some shopping in Calgary.”
“Farm’s busy. Icy highway. Maybe another day?”
“Dad, I insist.”
“Okay, Muriel.”
The highway spun away from the tires of the car. Alone and enjoying every second of it. The snaking paths of snow twining on the surface of the road. The thrill of driving fast in dangerous conditions. I had the radio blasting and singing so loudly I couldn’t hear the hum of the car or the wind roaring against it.
I didn’t even notice the cop car had his flashing lights on, didn’t notice him until he pulled up beside me and turned on his siren and I was so surprised I swerved a little into his lane and he had to veer away into oncoming traffic to avoid a collision.
“Shit!” I hissed. “Oh shit oh shit oshit!” as I slowed down, turned off my radio, and pulled over to the side.
The officer got out of his patrol car, shiny boots first, and his face was red with what I could only hope was his natural skin colour.
“You’re in a lot of trouble. I clocked you at 148 and you were driving dangerously and I can also nail you for resisting an officer. You’ll lose your license, if you’re old enough to even have one, and the fine is liable to pop you daddy’s eyes outta his head. Let’s see your licence. And your registration and insurance.”
I didn’t say anything at all, just handed him the papers. He slowly flipped through them, went back to his car and called up headquarters, or wherever on his radio, looking up now and then, to stare at the back of my head. He returned ominously slowly.
“So, you’re Muriel Tonkatsu, huh. You lost your grandmother a while ago, the word says. Sorry to hear that. I guess I can go easy on you this time. You’re probably under a lot of stress and all. But I’m still giving you a speeding ticket. Can’t have you speeding in weather conditions like this. Just take care not to turn on the radio so loud.”
And he smiled, actually smiled when he gave me the ticket. Not a mean smile, not a condescending one, just a nice and friendly smile. It made me feel so sorry, for I don’t know what, that tears pooled in my eyes, and I had to blink and blink so that they wouldn’t spill over.
I drove more slowly, after that, and turned down the volume on the radio. Stayed in the right hand-lane, flicked on my lights. Checked the map tacked on the visor and exited at Marquis de Lorne Trail, or whatever. Follow the airport signs until you hit Seventeenth Avenue SE, then turn right then take the next left at the first intersection, Dad had told me. I don’t know how he knew where the place was. After all, it wasn’t like he ever went shopping there, was it? I mean we never had a single Japanese food item in our house, aside from Obāchan’s packages from Japan. Why would Dad know The Oriental Food Store when he’s never bought anything Oriental in his whole immigrant life? Has he? And Obāchan. How did Obāchan know about it? “Go to the Oriental Food Store in south east Calgary,” she says. “Ask your father for directions.” It wasn’t like she ever left the house, or anything. Was it? But no time to think of things I couldn’t figure out anyway. The traffic on Deerfoot Trail careened around me with a blast of horn, a splash of slush, and no windshield wiper fluid. I just hummed myself into safety and periodically slammed on my brakes when people drove too close behind me.