Toddler Hunting

by Taeko Kono

  “Such as?”

  “Look at me,” she said, holding the edges of her kimono sleeves as she spread her arms out. “You can’t expect me to die like this. I was on my way to a friend’s funeral. I wouldn’t have dressed like this if I’d known.”

  “That’s good enough — better than house slippers and an apron.”

  “But this is black — the color of the dead!”

  “The color of the dead is white. Oh, you’re right, so is black. But so much the better — think how impressed everybody’ll be by your wearing black: they’ll think you died very tastefully, in a mood of calmness and acceptance.”

  “But that’s the last thing I want! I don’t want to give the impression I went calmly and peacefully!”

  “Well, what would you wear to show them you held out to your very last breath?”

  “I don’t know! I need time. Time to think about it, time to change.”

  “All right. You have a day to get ready.”

  “Can’t you make it two?”

  “What difference will that make? One day, and no more.”

  Noriko looked at her wristwatch — 1:17. The ticking seconds were suddenly very loud to her ears.

  “I expect you here in exactly ­twenty-four hours,” the voice said.

  The ticking grew even louder. At 1:17 tomorrow, Noriko thought, trembling, she would probably still be alive — but by 1:30 or 1:40, she’d be dead. The fatal time was getting closer by the minute, and once it came, she would never experience that time, or any time of day, ever again.

  “Can’t you make it ­twenty-six hours?” she pleaded.

  The tiny hand continued on its way round the watch dial. Seconds were passing; already it was 1:19.

  “All right — 3:19 tomorrow!”

  Noriko bowed, and began hurrying away.

  “So you’re not going to the funeral, after all?” the voice said, behind her. “Your friend’s ghost will be sad — don’t you care?”

  Noriko didn’t pause to look back, but walked even more quickly toward home.

  As Noriko turned off the street for the road to her house, the red public telephone in front of the corner bakery caught her eye. She went over, dialed the number of her husband Asari’s office and, staring blankly at the broken cradle for the receiver, listened to the urgent ringing. It would seem odd, she reflected, if she asked straight out when he was coming home. First she’d pretend to consult him about how much money to take to the funeral as a condolence gift.

  The switchboard operator came on the line.

  “Mr. Asari in sales, please,” Noriko said.

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  Noriko was silent.

  “Who is calling, please!” the operator repeated, her voice rising. Noriko cut the connection, and replaced the receiver.

  Arriving home, she unlocked the front door and turning the knob to go in, her eyes fell on the yellow ­milk-bottle box by the step’s wooden wainscoting. Its lid was half-up, propped on the two empties from breakfast. After tomorrow, she reflected, one bottle would be enough. Her habit was to attach her order for the milkman to an empty bottle with a rubber band whenever Asari went away on business, or the two of them took a trip. “Please leave one bottle till such and such a date,” she would write; or “Please cease deliveries until further notice.”

  It occurred to her as she went inside and slipped off her sandals that she should write a note before she forgot, telling the milkman, “Starting the day after tomorrow, please leave one bottle only.” Taking a ballpoint pen from the letter rack, she sat down at the dinner table and searched in her bag for the condolence envelope. She found an unmarked part of the envelope and, after taking out the money, tore off a rectangular strip.

  “Dear Milkman,” she wrote. “Thank you for delivering the milk every day. From the day after tomorrow . . .” But here she paused. She intended to take proper leave of her husband, but discreetly, without his actually being aware of it. If she put this note on the bottle now, and Asari saw it, she’d destroy her whole plan. No, it would have to wait till tomorrow morning, after her husband had left the house.

  Any number of things would have to be put off until her husband departed tomorrow: the key, for example, there on the tatami next to her purse. Whenever she left the house knowing he might return before she did, she hid it on her way out in the drainpipe by the kitchen door. On occasion, she forgot, and Asari was locked out. That must not happen tomorrow, but she couldn’t attend to it until she left for the very last time.

  Noriko tore another strip off the envelope. After scribbling key, and milkman, she folded it up in her powderpuff box on the low table before her mirror. She would definitely open that tomorrow.

  She untied her obi and took off her kimono. After changing into a sweater and skirt, she threw open all the windows as well as the connecting doors between the parlor, the living room, and the corridor. A fresh breeze and spring sunshine flooded the rooms of the small house. She wondered: should she leave her kimono out for a while? But according to her watch it was already nearly two o’clock. If she wasted energy on tasks like that — and she had scarcely worn it anyway — she wouldn’t get anything important done by the deadline tomorrow. She would only regret it, so she started to fold up the kimono. She glanced at the undergarments lying beside it, her hands moving busily. She could put those things in the garbage, she thought. It would all be collected tomorrow.

  Once the kimono had been tidied away, she took the neck band off her chemise, wrapped it and her other undergarments in newspaper, and stuffed them all in a large plastic bag. Everything she had to discard could go in the bag. The garbage truck would come at eleven — the underwear she changed out of tomorrow morning could be thrown away, too. She took some freshly washed underwear from the wardrobe and laid them ready on the quilt in the closet. On second thought, she didn’t want to leave her worn nightgown lying around to be found. She wrapped the nightgown she’d worn last night in a newspaper, put it in the bag, and chose a fresh one for tonight — this one would go in too, eventually. She placed some clean underwear and a pair of pajamas for Asari on the quilt. Opening the other closet door, she took out pillows and changed their cases. From the bottom half of the closet, she dragged out the two folded futons to strip off their sheets. Then she put them both back, set two clean sheets on top, and closed the closet.

  She would have to do something with that, she realized, eyeing the mound of dirty clothes at her feet. But laundry would be a waste of precious time now. The man from the cleaner’s might come round tomorrow. . . . But then again, he might not. True, she could always call to tell him to come and collect it, but there was no guarantee she would be there to receive him.

  “I have to get everything sorted out — as soon as I can,” Noriko told herself.

  They had six sets of sheets and pillowcases, the extra set for guests. Surely it would be all right to throw these two sets away; she wasn’t going to be around any more. She stuffed them in the plastic bag. Asari’s pajamas, however, made her hesitate: he only had three pairs. But she discarded these, to save time. And noticing her tabi, which she’d worn with the kimono, she added them to the bag — by now, it was filled to bursting.

  There was no risk of Asari noticing a garbage bag, and even if he did, he would hardly check its contents. Noriko tied it up, carried it out through the kitchen door, and deposited it next to the plastic trash bin. Countless other things still had to be thrown away, but unfortunately, they’d have to wait, like the key and the note for the milkman, until tomorrow.

  Noriko went upstairs. She tore a piece of paper from a pad in Asari’s desk to make a list of things to dispose of.

  “My pillowcase,” she wrote, “sheets; nightdress; and today’s clothes (skirt and sweater).” Then, under a separate heading for Asari, she wrote, “underwear.” After thinking for a while, she a
dded, “socks and handkerchief.” But then, where was she going to hide this list? Some place that wouldn’t catch Asari’s eye, but where she would see it once he had gone, before the garbage truck came by. The harder Noriko tried to think of a place, the more elusive it became. Well, for the time being she could conceal it in her can of dried sardines: she’d open that up tomorrow, to make miso soup for breakfast. True, Asari would still be home; but she could move it somewhere else then, and in any case, a better spot might still occur to her.

  As she made her way down to the kitchen, Noriko was still pondering what to wear when she left home for the last time tomorrow. She was determined to die in a way that clearly showed her will to live. She was even more set on leaving traces of the most appalling death agony. It would be best if blood spewed out, if it left the most gruesome stains. She would struggle to her very last breath, thrashing about horribly with her arms and legs, slipping and rolling in her blood, smearing it everywhere. . . . Come to think of it, blood would never have shown up against the black kimono she’d been wearing this morning. Thank goodness she hadn’t had to go dressed in that.

  Noriko recalled a white outfit that she had had made two years before. The fabric seemed slightly yellowed; she hadn’t worn it once this season. But it was basically still the same color. It would set the blood off nicely. But then she remembered: white was a color for the dead. One more minute, and she would have opted for what she least desired. Well, the only other garment that would do, considering the season, was her beige suit. A simple jersey skirt and jacket, she hardly ever wore it. She knew the suit would be in the wardrobe, but she opened the door just to make sure.

  Yes, there it was: it would contrast shockingly with the blood. A purple winter suit was also hanging there, as well as a raincoat, an overcoat, a light green spring suit, and a folded blouse sharing its hanger with a cardigan. None had been cleaned since she last wore them; these clothes would have to be thrown away too. Come to think of it, there was also the shoe cupboard in the hall — she would only need one pair now. But all the other shoes, sandals, and rain clogs had been kicked off and thrown inside. She didn’t want to leave them in that state. But Asari also used the wardrobe and the shoe cabinet, and again, he might notice if she cleared them out too soon.

  Noriko headed toward the kitchen — wardrobe and shoe cabinet had to be added to the list in the dried sardine can — but halfway there, she stopped in her tracks. I must not forget, she told herself firmly, that I was the mistress of this household. If I get rid of everything, the house will look like a place left by a daughter who has run away to get married, or a maid who has stolen everything and gone off. She retraced her steps, draped a tortoiseshell necklace over the beige suit on its hanger, and closed the wardrobe. On her way back down the front hall, she let herself glance inside the shoe cupboard. Her brown shoes, and several pairs of Asari’s were, all of them, clean enough.

  Cutting down the number of her tasks was a relief, but the next moment it occurred to her that she would never have thought of such things if she hadn’t started preparing her outfit for tomorrow. If she didn’t keep her wits about her, she thought anxiously, she would forget so many things — she would die without completing important tasks. . . . The more she worried, the more impossible it became to keep track of where one task ended and another began.

  Already it was nearly three o’clock. The front door of the bathhouse was just being thrown open. Noriko imagined selecting one of the wooden basins stacked just inside the bathing area, and hearing its hollow echo as she set it down in front of a deserted row of faucets. The afternoon sun would stream in through the high ­white-framed windows and reflect off the bottom of the tub. . . . Her very last bath, Noriko thought. She wanted to hear the clap of the wooden basin; she wanted to see the sunlight hit the tub.

  But there was still a much more important task: she hurried upstairs, opened a closet, and removed a wicker basket from behind some cushions at the bottom. From it she took out Asari’s three yukata. She replaced the basket and cushions. Standing up, she looked at the yukata in her arms: one more month, she thought, and it would be time to wear these. Asari would be sure to find them if she put them in the chest of drawers downstairs, with his underwear. And then it occurred to her that it might be nice to leave him a little message in one of these yukata. That way he’d discover it one summer evening, the first time he put it on. Yes, she wanted to whisper just a few words to her husband.

  Noriko laid the yukata down, and sitting at Asari’s desk, took out some writing paper and a pen. She contemplated the garments on the tatami, and the ­yukata-clad figure of Asari rose to mind — not on his way out to the bath, nor on his way back, but off to see a movie, on one of his evenings of not drinking.

  Every ten days or so, Asari would declare, as he was changing out of his work clothes, “Tonight, I’ll do without.” This was his way of saying that he wouldn’t have any drinks with dinner. When Noriko replied with comments like “Great!” or “I’m impressed!” he’d snap back: “I didn’t say I wouldn’t have any later!” On the other hand, if she only said, “I see,” or “All right,” he’d look hurt and resentful, and accuse her of indifference. Whatever she said on the nights he tried not to drink put him in a foul mood. She remembered infuriating him one evening: he’d asked her where the hammer was, and she’d told him to go and look in the sake cupboard. On these evenings, Asari always felt the need for some distraction, and often ended up at their local movie theater. He hardly ever invited her, but then she didn’t particularly want to go. If anything, she felt relief when he told her that he was going out, after a short supper without sake or beer; she would busily help him get ready. The tense set of his shoulders as he left showed that he was fuming about having said he wouldn’t drink. Rather than money she would put books of movie tickets in his yukata sleeve, so he would not be tempted on the way home. She felt sorry for him, but she also found the whole thing a little amusing.

  Noriko gripped the pen.

  “Good evening, dear,” she wrote. “So you’ve put on your yukata. You must be feeling cool and comfortable. Are you on your way to the Showa Cinema? Perhaps they’re showing one of your favorite sexy comedies tonight.”

  She signed her name, folded the note twice, then slipped it into the sleeve of the yukata on the top of the pile — a navy blue one with white horizontal stripes made up of small circles like sliced macaroni.

  But the prospect of greeting her husband from his yukata sleeve after her death like this made her want to give him a winter surprise too — perhaps from the pocket of his overcoat. She took up the pen again.

  “It’s gotten so cold, hasn’t it!” she wrote on the next sheet of paper: “I expect you’ll stop off for a drink on your way home tonight. Here’s a little pocket money, from my own secret supply. Well, I wish that were true. You always said, didn’t you, that I was no good at saving — that’s why you could trust me. Well, you were right, dear: this is only household expense money, plus the condolence gift for my friend’s funeral, which in the end I didn’t attend. You’re fussy enough about money — except when it comes to drink — to have been wondering what became of this small sum. Didn’t I see you, the other day, rummaging around in the chest of drawers for it? I’m glad you finally have it — sorry there’s no interest. Well, say hello to your friends for me. . . .”

  She would have to remember to enclose the money with the note. She tore that page off the pad, set it on the desk, and took up her pen again. It did cross her mind that perhaps she should be writing her will rather than these little notes. But no, she decided, that could wait; it wasn’t as if she could forget that. If she began to run out of time, a simple letter of testament to Asari would suffice. These messages were much more precious, at least in her opinion.

  “So you’re off on a business trip?” She would put this one in his suitcase. “You really are devoted to your job. Should I come with you? Or shall
I stay home? Well, maybe I will stay. I should look after our house, after all. Well, when you are leaving, don’t forget me — that way, you’ll remember to shut off the gas and lock up. Have a safe trip.”

  She should next appear, she decided, from their bundle of New Year’s cards. Asari would look them over again, before writing his own cards for the coming year. “I hope that you will marry again, and that your new wife will make you happy,” she would write. “You won’t be seeing me any more now. This is goodbye forever,” and with these words, she would disappear from his life.

  But it occurred to her, as she finished writing, that Asari might very well remarry before the year was out. Even if she could count on surprising him from his yukata sleeve, there was every chance that an appearance from his overcoat pocket might bring her face to face not with Asari, but with his next wife.

  A widower, just past forty, with a steady job and no children (even if he drank too much and wasn’t likely to be promoted), Asari wouldn’t have much difficulty in finding a new partner. He’d probably remarry as soon as he could, Noriko thought. He hadn’t had much luck with wives, as her own death would shortly prove; and she was his second. From what she knew of his past and personality, though, bad luck would not make him give up on marriage altogether. He wouldn’t search high and low trying to find the perfect partner this time either; he would get married again, not because he couldn’t bear being single, but simply because there was no reason not to.

  When Asari had first met Noriko, about eight years ago, he had been quite open about having already been married once. His wife had affected traditional tastes, he said. Their marriage hadn’t lasted long; they had divorced three or four years before. Noriko hadn’t any idea of the woman’s name or her age: Asari had gotten a completely new family register drawn up when he married her.

  Noriko knew, because he had told her himself, that he’d had several affairs after his divorce, before meeting her. It seemed he’d even lived with one woman. When Noriko first moved in, she came across all sorts of feminine accessories among his things: a bright red fountain pen, a set of mechanical pencils, a little wicker­work purse, a lady’s scarf. . . . They were mostly imported, hardly likely belongings of a woman with traditional tastes. Asari didn’t seem particularly bothered that she discovered them; and Noriko herself had been quite unconcerned. She’d even appropriated some, though the fountain pen she was using now was Asari’s.