by Paula Hiatt
“Why not have a whole arsenal of children, then?” Ryoki said, thinking regretfully of the lonely, quiet house of his childhood.
“There were complications and the doctor said another baby would be risky. And then we were so worried about your father’s health that I traveled with him a great deal, which would have been impossible with very many little ones. As you got older I started trying to split my time between you and your father. Somehow I always thought there would be more time down the road. Then I blinked and you were a teenager and didn’t seem to want me anymore. I started pushing to spend more time with you, but all I saw was you rushing in and out of the door. Somewhere in there I realized that you’d received two conflicting signals as you grew up. I was raising you to be courtly and honorable like my father, because that was what I knew. But your grandmother saw you as the golden prince. Your Grandfather Tanaka had the rough edges of the self-made man, and your father had a heart defect, but there was no taint of struggle, or disease or poverty on you, and you were always so bright and strong, such a leader among your friends, even as a boy. She intended to set you up as a king, because she has always wanted to play queen.”
“She was born a queen,” Ryoki blurted. His mother laughed, low and sardonic.
“Did you ever meet any of your grandmother’s family?”
“Of course not, she didn’t have any, because of the war. She told me.”
“Oh no,” his mother said, “they were quite a prolific race, but she escaped far away and changed her name.”
None of this made any sense to Ryoki, who had grown up listening to his grandmother lecture on the importance of family honor and dignity, her own behavior so stiffly decorous that even the bluest of his blue-blooded friends sat straighter when she entered the room.
“Her mother was a runaway Chinese serving girl and her father was a drunken fisherman and general good-for-nothing. They were the poorest of a poor village.”
Ryoki sat blinking, unable to conjure an image of his grandmother without her Hermès bag.
“Her village was remote and the other children teased her mercilessly. But she was born smart and beautiful and proud, very proud. And there was this boy who noticed her, the son of the richest man in the village, who began to secretly follow her around and tell her that he loved her. Then one day he happened to walk by as the other boys were mocking her, and she called to him. But he turned his head and pretended not to notice her at all. Later her parents were killed in a house fire and she was presumed dead as well. She hid in the woods and systematically stole money from every family that had mocked her. When she had enough, she came to Tokyo, changed her name and claimed to be that last of an obscure line of gentry that had been killed off in the war. Soon after that she met your grandfather, an older childless widower, who’d married the first time to please his family and decided to marry the second time to please himself. She was very, very good at covering her tracks. I don’t think he ever knew, or if he did, he never let on.”
“How could you possible know this?”
His mother looked at him steadily. “When your father was thirteen he was bullied by some schoolboys who pinned him into a corner and stole his money. Your grandmother was furious that he had let himself get bullied. She pulled him into an inner room and told him the whole story. Said that if she had backed down, she’d have died a beggar in her miserable village and your father would never have been born. Bragged how she’d never forgotten a single slight and used her position to bankrupt her first lover’s family. Told him to show those bullies who really held the power. He kept this to himself until fifteen years later when I went to him and said if he didn’t lock up the guns, he was going to lose either his mother or his wife. He took me for a walk and that’s when it all came out. He said that day fifteen years before was a turning point, that he’d looked at his mother’s face, all red and contorted with rage, and decided that if he was going to die young, he was going to die happy. So when his mother went to lie down for her nap, he took his bat and ball and went outside to run hard for the first time in his life. One of those young bullies now sits on your board. I won’t tell you which one, but he came three times a week to sit with your father once he was bedridden.”
Tears began to roll down his mother’s cheeks and she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. “At thirteen, your father made a decision that turned him into the man I wanted to marry, despite our differences. Your grandmother was the price I had to pay for my husband. I’d gladly pay it again if I could have him back.”
Ryoki put his arms around his mother and tried to envision his father as a young boy hitting a ball, cheered on by Death dressed in a professor’s tweeds. But the image carried the sting of an onion and he repelled it with a shove.
Chapter Twenty-eight
On his first day at work as President Tanaka, both Kate and his mother walked him to his car, like a boy leaving for his first day of school. Both women waved as the driver pulled away, his mother’s face a heartbreaking mixture of grief and pride. But Kate’s expression troubled him even more, a smile more brave than hearty, her gaze abruptly disconnecting, shifting to the west like Mary Poppins feeling a change in the wind.
The day was a busy one, ludicrously crammed with meetings, greetings and congratulations. In the roughly fifteen minutes he had to himself, he sat at his desk in a stiff new chair that still trailed a few wispy remnants of the protective plastic covering. He felt a midget headache begging hospitality, a byproduct of the odiferous coat of fresh queasy green paint undoubtedly intended to bring peace and renewal to his father’s old office. His crisply efficient new assistant poked her head in, a lovely smile, Japanese, former Miss Something, quick to do his bidding, bow here, dip of the head there, handled the phone without batting an eye and commanded the respect due to the daughter of a high government official. Full board in five minutes, she advised before hurrying off.
Ryoki picked up the receiver and called home under some flimsy pretense, worried Kate might be packing. He’d emailed her a sheaf of documents with a request for her personal opinion, a tacit reminder that she was still bound by ethical contract, though, strictly speaking, she did not yet possess a Japanese work permit. But even as he clicked Send, he knew it would take more to occupy such a gifted mind. He thought of the look on her face that morning. She knew she’d been nudged out of the wild, spiraling inner circle of the office without even a husband or child as an excuse, exactly as Montgomery predicted—probably played into her fears of oppressive Japanese men.
He sat in his brand-new chair in the office he’d coveted his entire life and rubbed his forehead, wishing himself at home. Again his assistant poked her head in. “They’re ready for you.” He took a deep breath and stood.
By the time he made it home, dinner had to be reheated and his mother had generated a rat-a-tat of questions about his day. Kate sat listening in silence, already taking the part of an outsider. Ryoki went to bed uneasy and dreamed he was back in his Business Law class the day Dr. Morgan had gotten sidetracked, waxing large on what he called the “George Washington Effect.” His academic detachment had disintegrated at the feet of his personal passion as history came alive in his mouth, zapping Ryoki with goose bumps that bubbled again, even in his sleep.
“For the first time, ruling power was willingly passed from one man to the next, without regard to bloodline or necessity of bloodshed. The first time! That, ladies and gentlemen, was the shot heard round the world,” the dream professor boomed in his giant dream voice, gesturing to a massive glass wall behind the lecture podium that hadn’t existed in real life. Beyond the glass stood the Washington Monument, a colossal white rook glittering outside the classroom. In the background Ryoki heard the round authoritative clip of Kate’s heels as she entered the lecture hall, striding down the raked rows of seats and resplendent in her university robe and queen’s crown, prepared to take over the lecture. But his mother and grandmother leapt from the aisle seats and began handing her che
ss pieces—bulky, heavy family heirlooms, pawn after pawn carved like children with curly black hair, slick with blood and sweat. Juggling the pawns she dropped her chalk which snapped in half, rocketing off in two directions—one piece rolling under a desk, the other bouncing into a grate with a fading tunk, plunk, tink. The class began to mumble its disapproval of the delay: Unprofessional—Dim-witted—Quit wasting our time—
The professor, now wearing a bishop’s mitre, tried shooing her from the classroom, but Montgomery blocked his advance, one hand brandishing a medieval sword and the other shaking a pompom as he cheered on, “Dump ‘em, Kate! Show ‘em what you got!”
Ryoki heard the jeers of the spectators and noticed Kate’s hands trembling with the weight of the ungainly pawns that bore his eyes. He leaped up to rush to her side, but his arm was pinned under a solid gold scepter, and his ermine-trimmed, red-velvet robe had caught on a nail, choking him as he tried to rise.
Ryoki awoke in a cold sweat that drove him to Kate’s room, only to find her sleeping peacefully, her lamp still burning, one hand clutching a leaky pink fountain pen atop a half-filled five-subject notebook. Blinking and bewildered, he made his way across the room, gently plucking the pen from her hand and picking up the notebook. The open page was covered in Kate’s fastest scrawl, as though she couldn’t expel her ideas fast enough. He closed the cover quick before temptation hit, laying notebook and pen neatly on the night table, then switched off the lamp and slunk silently back to his bed to count the long dark hours until morning.
The next evening he sat next to her at her computer, his elbow on her desk, acutely curious about the five-subject notebook, his head so full of things to say he didn’t know where to begin. Her fingers still bore traces of pink ink. He sat up and took a deep breath. “Kate—”
The door creaked and a maid quietly entered bearing a late delivery: Two dozen roses in a vase, “Come Home” written in English on the front of the envelope tucked into the spray. It looked like a feminine hand, probably a teleflorist who may or may not have understood what she was copying down. Kate plucked the card from the bouquet and gave the flowers to the maid who had seen the look on her master’s face and hastily retreated before the fat pink buds could be fed to the shredder.
Keeping his cool, Ryoki watched to see if Kate would toss the card contemptuously in the trash. Instead she dropped it unopened on the desk and turned back to her computer. Ryoki leaned forward, diligently studying the spreadsheet on her screen, but the far corner of his left eye could just catch the pale green of the envelope. Though he never turned his head, his eyes shifted of their own accord, the green blooming steadily larger and larger until it pulsed with the same erratic buzz as a neon sign on a flop hotel.
“How did Montgomery get this address?” he asked, taking a full second to realize the question had come from his own mouth.
“Oh, he’s been emailing,” she said offhandedly, jamming her right ring finger on the backspace and accidentally deleting an entire cell from the spreadsheet.
“So, did the two of you make up?” Tokyo was supposed to be “Base,” no blonds allowed. For the first time in his life he wished communication had not advanced beyond the tin can and string.
“We’ve been talking about Lucas. He said he’s been too judgmental and too jealous. Lots of things,” she said, waving her hand to indicate so on and so forth. “And he also mentioned that there’s an opening in the New York office and he’s considering applying.”
New York? Putting Montgomery within striking distance of Kate and her new job. If she had raked her fingernails across his face, she could not have hurt him more, but he plowed forward, pretending carelessness. “Mother’s been after me to meet Lucas, and this morning I promised him a ticket if he’d come visit. But he sounded pretty reluctant. Cecelia says he needs to stick to with his tutor for now. I think she’s just afraid we won’t bring him back.” This was a fear Ryoki considered entirely justified, though he smiled as if the notion were ridiculous. “She also said Nakamura started moving into that house yesterday. Apparently he and Lucas went out to the garden and kicked a football for half an hour. Lucas has practically slept with his football ever since he got accepted at that boarding school. He even quit complaining about the uniform when he heard about the junior team.”
“Oh, he’ll complain again when the new term starts and he actually has to put on that tie,” Kate said with a wry smile, which reminded Ryoki of Cecilia’s last bit of news.
“Speaking of uncomfortable ties, Mariko and Mr. Nishimura are attending a concert tomorrow,” he added with a significant look.
“Finally,” she said, rolling her eyes and leaning back to stretch her legs. “Did you remember that the Arimas got in from São Paulo last night? I invited them to dinner tomorrow, and I completely forgot to ask your mother first.”
“I doubt she’d care.”
“She doesn’t, but the housekeeper’s mad that I breached protocol. For lunch I accidentally got cold miso soup with a side of oct-o-pus. Maybe I should fix her up with your gardener,” she gave him the crooked-mouth-raised-eyebrow look that always made him laugh, then threw a sucker punch that knocked him sideways: “Ryoki, you don’t need me here.”
“That’s not true.” He blurted the standard response in all its photocopied glory, then sat frantically searching three languages for a meaningful addendum. He wanted to tell her that buttons made death itself easier to bear. But he knew it sounded stupid, so he kept it to himself.
“We both know this is busy work,” she said, tapping the spreadsheet on her screen.
“Think of it as a paid vacation until we get your visa sorted,” he said.
“What visa? Right now this is just me living off you.” The word mistress wafted through the air, but she did not speak it.
“We have a contract through December. I’m holding you to it,” he said, his heart sinking with every word.
“Ryoki, be logical for—”
“Are you really so eager to run back to him?” He hoped his voice came out manly and deep instead of needy, but he could hear the single plaintive string quivering in the orchestra. He swallowed hard. “Quit pretending this is all about business. I told you I love you and you didn’t even act surprised.”
Kate kept silent, clasping her hands in a feeble attempt to hide their shaking.
“How long have you known?” he asked.
“I suspected, when you ran off to Rio,” she said, almost whispering. “I panicked and decided to go home then. I left behind everything you bought me and after I packed it still looked like someone lived there.” Her voice grew stronger, but she kept her eyes on her hands. “I went to Buenos Aires to take advantage of a cheap flight to the States, but the trip gave me time to think. In the end I rationalized that you went to Rio to clear your head, which meant you didn’t want to do anything crazy either.”
He reached out to touch her face, but she turned her head, nervously running her thumb across the thickness of her notebook. “We’re long past crazy,” he said, inching closer. Still she wouldn’t look at him. “Kate,” he murmured, gently lifting her chin.
Her eyes wired pure alarm, bleeding the fizzy energy of a spooked deer. Slowly he grazed his fingers across her cheek and down her neck, threading his hand into her hair as little by little he leaned forward, his mouth pausing just short of her lips, breath caressing breath. He moved again, speaking just above her ear. “I think you love me back and it has you scared half out of your mind.”
Abruptly the mesmer snapped and she pulled away, settling back in her chair, a miniature escape that somehow folded a universe between them. “You look at me just like my husband used to before we got married.”
“Kate, you know what I’m going to ask—”
She put a finger to his lips. “Don’t,” she said. “Please don’t.”
Ryoki settled back to give her space, the tick tick tick of the clock marking the silence, one second, two … ten … twenty …
&nbs
p; “Kathryn, you are a house divided,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“So how does a traditional woman survive in the modern world? That’s what Montgomery was asking, but you never really answered.”
“Ryoki don’t do this, please don’t do—”
“I know you,” he said. “I’d bet a million yen that right this minute you’re thinking you don’t need us, that you could just go out on your own. Am I right?” Kate blinked long and slow, finally nodding without looking at him.
“I read your journal—” Her head jerked up, the blush spreading almost instantly. He knew it was a risk scratching a transgression newly sutured, but he pushed forward. “I’m not proud of it, but I did it, and now I probably know more about your marriage than you’ve told your sisters.” The blush deepened to crimson and he drew closer, gently taking her hand. “I saw how alone you were, how you sacrificed in your marriage because at bottom, you value family above all else. You survived by insulating yourself, because you had to.”
She took a long, deep breath and pulled her hand away. “I thought I’d become immune, which is ultimately why I risked going to São Paulo with you.”
“And in São Paulo you reconnected with a friend from your old life, a handsome blond who looks enough like your husband to be his brother. Maybe husband 2.0—a kinder, more user-friendly edition who’s closer to seeing your worth. You’re comfortable with this type of man, and after your first experience you’d substitute kindness for complete acceptance, if you had to make a choice. Your first husband awoke you to the safety of an independent life. You and Montgomery might be halfway down the aisle even now, except I was also in São Paulo, the inconvenient man who wants just what you want, but who comes at a high price.” Ryoki pulled the scarf from her neck and traced the bruises, now faded to a light tan. “I should warn you, speaking from experience, sleeping with blonds is a lonely business.”