“How can you say such a thing?”
“It is easy. I think, then I open my mouth and speak.”
He watched from the window as she went down the street. Her gait was uneven, one hip rising slightly with each step. He felt a pang of guilt that he’d never asked what caused her problem. If it was a birth defect, it could be passed on to children. He looked down at his hands, shocked to have had such a thought. He sat at his desk to practice his writing before going to the shop, trying to block out the image of her rising and falling hip, the thought of it somehow arousing. She could become pregnant, he thought with a cold spot of fear in his stomach.
For weeks he occupied himself with work, visiting other shops that specialized in woodblock prints, and beginning his study of kanji. Often he worked so late into the night that Mrs. Fukuda had to wake him when it was time for work.
One morning at breakfast she said, “I don’t believe I’ve seen Rinn-san in quite a while.”
“Mmm.” Benji kept his gaze focused on the newspaper. He was making progress; he could read the headlines now and often got the gist of stories.
She removed his soup bowl and put rice and fish before him.
“Every day we all get a little older,” she said.
He began to eat his fish and turned the page to the shipping news.
“You will regret missing the opportunity to marry such a sincere woman who loves you.”
“What?” He stared at her intense eyes, the cluster of small moles on her forehead.
She laughed. “Shall you as an American require a go-between?”
“No,” he said, “when the time comes I will not.” He gulped the rest of his tea and headed for the door.
“She may find another man,” Mrs. Fukuda called after him. “I think you would regret it.”
Busybody, Grandmother Pinkerton would call her.
In early December he had dinner at the Tsujis’ house. Mr. and Mrs. Tsuji and he and Haruki sat with their legs dangling over the warm coal kotatsu as they ate shabu-shabu—sizzling chicken and vegetables served from one pot. The men were drinking beer; Mrs. Tsuji, tea. Haruki dominated the conversation, complaining about Mrs. Foreigner. Benji asked why he hadn’t stayed to work in the shop. “It doesn’t suit my temperament,” Haruki said.
Benji noticed Mr. and Mrs. Tsuji exchange a quick glance; beneath that glance he sensed a long history of interchange and understanding. He asked how long they’d been married. “Too long,” Mr. Tsuji said with a laugh; his wife gave him a playful slap on the arm and said, “Forty-two years as of next April.” When Benji asked if it had been an arranged marriage, she said, “Oh, yes, very few Japanese marry for love, but love can be learned, as I keep telling my son.”
Scowling, Haruki rose from the table and gestured for Benji to follow. They had agreed to go drinking after dinner. When Benji bowed and thanked the Tsujis for their hospitality, Mrs. Tsuji said, “Please come anytime. You are our second son.”
He and Haruki went to a bar nearby and sat at a counter drinking warm sake.
“Are you opposed to marriage?” Benji asked him.
“Too much trouble,” Haruki said with a wave of his hand. “Once I liked a woman, and my father hired a go-between to approach her. She kept me in suspense for weeks before saying no.”
“You have to keep trying,” Benji said. “You’ll find someone.”
“Too much trouble,” Haruki said again.
After they parted, Benji found himself walking up the hill to Maruyama. He knocked on the back door of the house where Rinn lived. An elderly woman with a scarf tied around her head peered out at him.
His heart was racing. “Please ask Rinn to come out,” he said. “It’s urgent.”
“Rinn-chan is away, I believe.”
“Away where?”
“A small holiday, perhaps, I cannot say for sure.”
“When will she return?”
“Sumimasen,” she said with a bow. “I have no information.”
“Please ask her to contact me—Matsumoto Benji,” he said, just as she was closing the door.
Filled with dread, he began to visit shops and restaurants in the Maruyama area. Most people said they did not know a woman of Rinn’s description; those who did claimed ignorance about where she might be. It was like looking for his mother again.
One day just after the New Year he saw her coming out of a shop with a package and ran to greet her. Her cheeks were red, her eyes gleaming; she looked frighteningly happy.
He ran to her. “Where have you been?”
She flicked her eyes at him. “I am surprised by your sudden concern.”
His throat went thick. “I missed you. Please come back.”
“Now he misses me,” she said to the sky. “So the slave must hurry to his palace.”
“I was worried,” he said. “Please come just once.”
“I am rather busy,” she said, but she was smiling.
They agreed that she would come for dinner on Sunday. When he told Mrs. Fukuda, she clapped her hands in delight. “We’ll have a feast.”
“There’s nothing special about this occasion,” Benji said. “She’s only coming for dinner.”
Late Sunday afternoon it began to snow. He thought of meeting her in the shrine when it was snowing; he felt a flicker of anger, as if Rinn were controlling the weather too.
She wore a long coat over her kimono; on her umbrella was a thin layer of snow. With the white flakes swirling behind her, she could have been the subject of a ukiyo-e print by Hiroshige. You’re beautiful, he longed to say.
Mrs. Fukuda came to greet her and, with a great amount of exclamation, accepted Rinn’s gifts of dried bonito and a box of sweets. Mrs. Fukuda said she was about to finish up with dinner; would Rinn like to help?
The two women disappeared into the kitchen, behind a jangling bead curtain, talking and laughing as hot oil sizzled in the pan.
He hadn’t imagined the evening like this. He paced the room, picked up a book of haiku, put it down.
Finally the women came in with the food. They sat down to eat: a delicate soup, sashimi, chawan mushi, a variety of pickled foods, including plums from the Umezono Shrine, and tempura.
“I’ve never cooked tempura before,” Rinn said, with an uncharacteristically shy expression. “I hope you can bear it.”
“Very good,” he said, though the sweet potato was greasy and the batter fell off the shrimp.
Rinn went to the kitchen for fresh tea. Mrs. Fukuda leaned forward and whispered, “You could live here, with myself as the honorary mother-in-law.”
He shook his head, laughed, and lit a cigarette.
Mrs. Fukuda retired early; Benji and Rinn climbed the stairs. His hands trembling, he removed Rinn’s layers of kimono, kissed her breasts, and led her to the futon, but after several minutes was aware that he wouldn’t be able to make love. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Let’s just sleep together like two contented bears,” she said, and drew him to her warm bosom.
When he had difficulty sleeping, he disentangled himself from her and went to look out the window. There was a quarter moon; the snow on rooftops gleamed eerily in the dark. What did it mean, his sudden inability? He’d never had this difficulty with a woman before. He turned to look at her indistinct shape in the dark room. She had left him without a word, without a warning.
In the morning he awoke to her caressing him, and he turned to her, his body alive. “Darling woman,” he said in English, looking down at her; he knew no equivalent in Japanese.
“You see. I am good for you.” She pulled him tighter against her.
As they lay together in the sweet sad aftermath of love, she said, “We should be together, ne?”
He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. “Where were you?”
“What does it matter? I have returned.” She sat up abruptly. “What do you wish for us?”
“That we go on as before. But no leaving without explanati
on.”
“I see.” She rose and began to dress.
“You’re going?”
“Yes, why not? I’m a very busy woman.”
Benji jumped up and began pulling on his trousers and shirt. “Why can’t you explain where you were all that time?”
She shrugged. “Because this is all that matters to you.”
“It’s I who have been the slave.” He rushed down the steps; she wasn’t leaving before he did.
Mrs. Fukuda had opened the door to air out the first floor, where the odors of last night’s dinner still hung in the air. She was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. He looked out at the snow, the footprints of some animal there. If Rinn left now, she wouldn’t return.
He started back up the stairs. She was just coming down. They froze, staring at each other.
“Do we need a go-between?” he blurted out.
“There has been no one between us,” she said.
He took her arm. “What if we don’t get along?”
“This is the risk of life.”
“Shall we try?” he said. He heard Mrs. Fukuda go still in the kitchen.
She stepped down and embraced him. “I think we will do better than try.”
“No more leaving,” he said.
“If you don’t leave …” She put a hand flat against his chest, then against hers. “Neither will I.”
They turned and walked to the bottom of the stairs, where Mrs. Fukuda was waiting with her congratulations.
The doctor warned him that she had changed in the past months, but at first he did not recognize the woman who was led into the parlor by a coarse-looking nurse. “Sit down, Mrs. Pinkerton,” the nurse said, guiding her, none too gently, into the chair opposite his.
She was shockingly thin, her dress hanging wilted on her frame, and the eyes that he had loved, sapphire and full of life, were dull. Her face was gaunt, almost skeletal.
“Hello, darling,” he said, and reached to take her hands. He had planned to say, Happy anniversary. “You’re not wearing your wedding ring,” he said.
“They wouldn’t glue it on,” she said in a flat voice. Was it humor or madness?
“I’ve brought you some presents.” He laid a large wrapped box on her lap. Her fingers plucked at the bow; he unwrapped it himself. “From Montgomery Ward,” he said, standing to hold up a silky blue dress.
She touched it as if she didn’t know what a dress was. He felt a wrench of guilt, thinking of how he’d scolded her when she’d bought dresses on her own, trying so hard to please him.
He opened the next box, in it a blue shawl that he arranged around her shoulders. She seemed to like that, at least; she drew it close around her.
“Lemon crisps!” He held out an opened tin of cookies. “Mother made them. She remembered they’re your favorite sweet.” She made no move to take one.
“You need to eat, darling.” He shook the tin. “Have you not been eating?”
He should take her home to Cicero; his mother and sister would see that she ate. She wasn’t violent, the doctor said. But it would be hard on Mary Virginia and Franklin to see her like this, and he was hardly at home now, on the road for days at a time.
He wanted her back; he wanted to be able to tell her everything. He took her hands again. “Katie,” he said, “I miss you.”
She stared at the floor.
“Do you know me, Katie? I’m Frank, your husband.”
“Frank,” she said, with something like a smile.
“That’s right. Look, sweetheart, I almost forgot, I brought you a book of poems—maybe you could hide it under your mattress,” he said in a mock whisper.
The Kate he knew would have laughed.
“Where are the babies?” she whispered.
“With Mother.” Thank God she didn’t know that the twins were living with the Keasts in the farmhouse. “Everyone is fine,” he said. “The children are fine.”
Her face went blank. It must be the medicine. Last time the nurse said she was taking new medicines.
He led her to the sofa and put his arm around her, hoping that she would lean against him, lay her head on his shoulder. But she was rigid; he could not move her. She’d always had a will of iron, he thought with a flash of anger.
“Goodbye then,” he said, but did not move. He looked around the parlor, nicely furnished. She had no idea of the sacrifices made to keep her out of the state asylum. She might be glad he’d sold the farm—she’d always hated it—but she’d be humiliated to know the Cases had bought it, humiliated to know that the Moores were making contributions toward her upkeep. Aimee Moore’s penance, he thought bitterly; if not for her, Kate probably wouldn’t be here.
He reached into the tin of cookies, ate one, then another—too sweet, but he kept eating.
The nurse reappeared. He stood, brushed the crumbs from his shirt into his hand, and put them in his pocket.
The nurse lifted Kate; she seemed limp as a doll.
“What’s wrong with her?” Frank cried. “She’s worse.”
“She tried to run away on two occasions. We’ve had to confine her.” The nurse’s eyes were large and moist. She was kinder than she had first appeared.
He did not look back as he left the room and went outside. He mounted Admiral and pressed him into a canter, managing to hold back his tears until they were well away from the asylum.
Ed McAuley’s farm wasn’t far, outside DeKalb. Last year he’d bought a fancy combine. He could use a second plow, all the land he had. Frank couldn’t bear the thought of going home to his empty bed, the picture of Katie on the dresser.
He spied McAuley and his men in the middle of a vast cornfield. On the way out to them he broke off an ear of corn and inspected it: much meatier than any he’d ever grown. Must be a different variety. His years of farming gave him an advantage over other salesmen, who came at it from a business point of view.
McAuley didn’t need anything, he said, but directed him to the neighboring farm, a fruitless call. The old geezer said he hadn’t recovered from the panic of ’07 and anyhow the old farm equipment was best; he was still using his father’s plow and harrow and didn’t intend to change. No point in arguing.
It was a late-summer afternoon that under other circumstances would have been beautiful, hot but with a nice breeze, the kind of day when Kate and his mother had made strawberry ice cream and they all sat out on the porch eating it, looking out at the sunset. The little quarrels of those days seemed inconsequential now. Those ridiculous beets.
In DeKalb he could stop in at the whorehouse. He felt filthy to think of it after seeing Kate, but a man had to survive somehow. He pressed Admiral harder, but he couldn’t canter for long. Getting to be an old man like himself.
But once he reached town, the thought of the whorehouse sickened him. He stopped by the saloon for a bottle of whiskey and a sandwich, then went to the White Rose Hotel and drank himself to sleep.
Benji and Rinn were married in the spring, at the shrine where they had met in Maruyama. A slight breeze stirred the leaves of the plum trees and lifted a wavy strand of Rinn’s hair that had escaped her Shinto headdress. Mr. and Mrs. Tsuji and Haruki stood with them, and Megumi and Mrs. Fukuda, all in their best kimono. Benji looked at Rinn and his improvised family; at the shrine, decorated with long strips of folded white paper for the wedding; at the flowers coming into bloom; and up at the sky, the blue less intense than an American sky. Everything was shot through with beauty. He had never dreamed of such happiness.
Keast would be glad for him. He felt a sting of guilt; he must write to Keast.
Benji and Rinn settled in at Mrs. Fukuda’s house; she insisted that they take as much space as they needed and appointed herself honorary mother-in-law. She taught Rinn to shop and cook, at first with limited success. The rice was sometimes scorched and the tempura soggy or greasy.
Privately, Rinn said Mrs. Fukuda made her nervous—all that hovering. “And the time of your arrival is unpredictable
, so planning the meal precisely is impossible.”
“I’m building our future,” Benji replied.
With Mr. Matsumoto’s handsome gift of money for their marriage, Benji began to collect antiques for a shop of his own. Some days he walked throughout the city and into the countryside to buy from small shops and street vendors, carrying home lacquer chests, suits of samurai armor, wooden boxes of tea bowls tied together with string. At night in bed Rinn massaged his knotted arms and shoulders.
“You’re spoiling me,” he said.
“From me you will always receive exactly what you deserve,” she said with a laugh, and fitted her body next to his.
In the spring and summer evenings they went for long walks along the waterfront and beside the Nakashima River, looking down over the bridges at the water where, he told her, he had once believed kappas were waiting for him. In August, at O-Bon, the festival of the dead, they lit a candle on a small straw boat for his mother’s spirit, which joined thousands of other boats floating in the darkness toward the sea.
In January, Rinn gave birth to a boy, Shoichi. At first they called him Little Buddha, because he was cheerful and bald. Rinn worried that when his hair grew in it would be wavy, Benji that it would be blond, but he was relieved that his son’s eyes were black, though too round to be those of a pure Japanese.
Friends brought gifts—a kimono for Shoichi’s first-month blessing at the shrine, a samurai doll, a kite for boy’s day—and offered congratulations for such an auspicious beginning to the New Year. Mr. Matsumoto sent an even larger gift of money than before, delivered by a representative of the American consulate. This is part of what I had planned to be an inheritance to you, he wrote, but I think it is best that you have it now, when you have greatest need.
“Haven’t the gods smiled on us?” Rinn said, as she sat nursing the baby one night in their room. “From such beginnings to this.”
“Yes,” Benji said, but when she handed him the baby, warm in his blanket, and he looked down at his son—the miraculous fingers and toes, the delicate blue vein at his temple—he was filled with melancholy as well as tenderness.
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