'Til Grits Do Us Part

by Jennifer Rogers Spinola

  “Maybe you didn’t give enough money.”

  “Maybe I didn’t want to accept what life dished out.” I settled Christie carefully on the seat, clicking off her leash while she alternately licked my chin and smudged the freshly washed window glass with her nose, tail whapping me in the face. “Or take responsibility for my actions.”

  “That, too.” Kyoko’s reply came surprisingly soft. “You’ve changed, Ro. And I mean that in a good way. Except for the…um…table runner thing. That’s just goofy. Back in Japan you would have called in sick rather than step out of the house sans Prada. Or whatever snooty brands you wore.”

  I shuddered, thinking of my cowboy boots. If Kyoko heard about them, I was in big trouble.

  “Well, life’s thrown me a Salvation Army wedding dress.” I shut the passenger’s side door and circled around to the left side, pushing my heat-straggly bangs to the side and out of my eyes. “As long as you don’t mind parting with that table runner. It is silk, after all.”

  “Of course not! We never used it. But how’s it gonna look? I’ve never heard of a wedding dress with an obi in my life, Ro. And believe me, I’ve seen some weird wedding getups.”

  “Yeah, like your aunt’s gold bridesmaids’ dresses. I’ve been thinking about those.”

  “Don’t tempt me, my dear,” said Kyoko dryly. “You have no idea what a thrill I’d get out of it.”

  “I think we’ll stick with mine.” I slammed my door and turned the air-conditioner vents toward Christie and me, adjusting my rearview mirror and backing out of the space.

  “So, has Ashley actually bought our bridesmaids’ dresses yet, Ro-chan? I mean, it’s not August yet, but I’m Type A. I like things done in advance. And this is WAY past the ‘advanced’ stage.”

  “I know.” I sighed and pulled out into Greenville Avenue’s Friday afternoon traffic, sun glinting off Faye’s hood as I passed fast-food restaurants and pizza places. Trying not to get uptight every time I thought of Ashley. “She said she found the dresses in our sizes.”

  “Did she buy them?”

  “I…I think so.”

  “Did she say so?” Kyoko growled.

  “I’ll ask again. I promise.”

  “Well, maybe I should bring some of these gold babies for backup.”

  I almost said yes in jest then thought better of it. If there were two women in the world I had to watch, they were Kyoko and Ashley. For entirely different reasons.

  “So you’ve sent the table runner already?”

  “Yesterday, overnight express. You’ll probably get it tomorrow though, with all the bad weather in the Midwest.” Kyoko hmm-ed. “Should I have included a place setting with it? Maybe to cover some larger spots, like—”

  “Just the runner.” I glared.

  “It’s yours. Enjoy.”

  I tapped out a little dance with my feet. “My wedding dress! Can you believe it? For fifteen dollars.”

  “I hope you’re happy.” Kyoko’s voice held a warning tone. “Remember, I told you I’d pay for a decent dress.”

  I smiled. “I know. Thanks. But you’re already paying for all the Japanese stuff you’re bringing. Plates and teacups and mochi and everything.”

  Mochi. My mouth watered, remembering the sweet, squishy little pounded rice cakes Japanese served at traditional festivals.

  “And not just any mochi,” added Kyoko. “Cherry blossom mochi to match your wedding cake. Which supposedly Stella is concocting in her blessedly smoke-free kitchen. Am I right?”

  “You got it. She’s been clean for two weeks or so. I hound her every day by phone and buy her lots of chewing gum. At least cooking for her catering business keeps her busy because she’ll lose business when Jerry’s restaurant closes.”

  “Good luck with your charity cases, Ro. But don’t even think of trying to get me to quit. I like my cancer sticks, thank you very much.”

  “I know you do.” I bit my lip. “I’ll find some way to convince you though. Don’t worry.”

  “Oh, I do worry. Believe me. Hey, speaking of mochi.” I pressed the Bluetooth to my ear in a vain attempt to keep up with Kyoko’s split-second subject changes. “A lot of elderly Japanese people choke on mochi every year and die. The rice is pounded so densely that the mochi balls are hard to chew and easy to swallow. And curiously enough, they fit exactly the size and shape of a human windpipe.”

  I felt ill. “Maybe we shouldn’t serve mochi at the wedding after all.”

  “Did you know that a woman once saved her husband from choking on mochi by shoving a vacuum-cleaner hose down his throat?” Kyoko rattled on, as if she hadn’t heard. “AP. Go through the archives.”

  “So where are you going now anyway?” She switched subjects again, probably trying to catch me off guard. “Your car’s fixed. You’ve got no business prowling around town doing anything else after this, so you’d better be heading home. Hear me?”

  “Take it easy. I’ve just got to—”

  “Got to nothing! Do you have the throwing star in your purse? If you don’t, you’re in big trouble.” Kyoko’s tone turned as sharp as one of those sparkling razor edges.

  “It’s in there.” I adjusted my sunglasses in annoyance. “Simply because I haven’t had time to think of a hiding place Christie won’t find at Faye’s. She ate Earl’s entire stash of Kit Kats, you know? I told you we went to the vet this morning.”

  “Wait, isn’t chocolate toxic for dogs?”

  “I’m surprised at you. Are you getting soft toward animals?” I stuck the Bluetooth deeper in my ear.

  “Please,” she snorted. “I don’t care, really. The chocolate thing’s simply scientific fact. Anyway, she’ll like the box I sent then, with your old apartment stuff from Tokyo. I threw in some cucumber-flavored Kit Kats.”

  “Cucumber?” I howled.

  “That’s Japan for you. Always messing with the flavors. It was either cucumber or banana, and banana seemed so…normal.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Well, the scientific fact is that Christie’s fine because apparently Kit Kats don’t contain that much actual chocolate. We had her last vet checkup an hour ago. I did feel pretty terrible, though, when I found all the empty wrappers.” My smile faded as I recalled my worried face as I rushed Christie to the vet in tears, patting her fuzzy head in the passenger’s seat. “I guess I’m not so good at keeping things alive.”

  That was pretty true, actually. I’d let Mom’s rose garden dry out last year, although Adam—by some miracle—had managed to save it. His bonsai tree wasn’t so lucky though. Even though I’d taken it to Faye’s and prodded it with fertilizer and filtered water, I found it dead three days ago. A mass of wrinkled leaves. I’d bawled like a baby.

  “Hmmph.” Kyoko sniffed. “I’ll be happy if you just keep yourself alive. And you still haven’t told me where you’re going before Faye’s. And it better not be to run. I swear, Ro, you’d give the longest suffering priest a heart attack.”

  The sun disappeared in a wash of darker clouds, and the humid, rain-heavy air felt like a stifling blanket. Two heavy drops splattered on the windshield.

  “I’m running on Faye’s treadmill, okay? And I’m just going to the post office to pick up the box you sent with my old apartment stuff. And now some garishly flavored Kit Kats, too, apparently.”

  Kyoko let out a long breath. “Fine. I’ll give you permission this time. But don’t push it.”

  I chuckled as I came under the railroad overpass, driving by a giant metal flower-pot display with zinnias spilling out in all colors. A patch of carmine impatiens peeked from a planter—reminding me of red roses.

  I took a deep breath and turned away from the flowers. “There’s one more thing I should tell you though, Kyoko.”

  “Oh great. Here it comes.” She let out a groan. “More Odysseus stuff, right? I’d like to strap that guy to a moving truck.”

  “That makes two of us.” I gently pushed Christie’s head back as she tried to nose her way onto my lap. “So h
ere it is: the police found my purse that got snatched.”

  “Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?”

  “Yes and no.” I pushed Christie’s bottom back on the seat again, more firmly this time, and navigated through the hilly, narrow, one-way streets. Stuart Hall, the preppy girl’s school, slid by on my left. “The good news is that everything’s inside—even my spare change. All my cards. A woman found my purse in a trash can about two miles from Waynesboro Elementary.”

  I winced, picturing my beautiful Kate Spade jammed up against somebody’s wrinkled orange peels and cigarette butts. Its handle sliced when the guy ripped it off my arm.

  “But.”

  Kyoko moaned. “I knew there was a but!”

  “Just hear me out, okay? The weird thing is that somebody apparently left a gift in one of the pockets.”

  “A gift. For you.”

  “Possibly.”

  “What, mochi? A table runner?” Kyoko sounded exasperated—and if I judged her tone correctly, a little bit weary. After all, worrying (an action somewhat akin to dreaded affection) taxed her reserves.

  “A paper sensu.”

  Kyoko fell silent.

  “You still there?” I jiggled the Bluetooth.

  “Sure, I’m here. I’m waiting for the punch line.”

  “There’s no punch line, Kyoko. That’s it. Somebody stuck a little white paper folding Japanese fan with a ribbon on the handle in one of the pockets.”

  Light rain spattered, and I turned on my windshield wipers. They made knife-like movements across my windshield, whisper-like.

  “A sensu. The kind people give for gifts.” Kyoko cleared her throat sharply. “Ahem. Wedding gifts.”

  “Right.” I hunched my shoulders nervously as Christie, blissfully undisturbed by our conversation, poked a smiling, toothy snout out the crack in the window.

  “They found the sensu in your purse.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you didn’t put it there and—let me guess—have never seen it before. And no fingerprints.”

  “Exactly. No fingerprints. Just like all the other letters and cards. How’d you know?”

  Kyoko sighed. “I just figured it’d be something ridiculous like that, knowing you. So what’s this supposed to mean? That your mugger thought you needed a cool-down in the summer heat?”

  “I…I don’t know.” I lifted my shoulder in a nervous shrug. “I just thought it was strange.”

  “You think?” Kyoko’s voice turned to steel. “I don’t know how to say this, Ro, but there was a really gory case in South Korea a few weeks ago where this guy showed up at his ex-wife’s house with a traditional wedding robe and a very, very sharp—”

  “Kyoko!” I shook my head vigorously, flipping off my wipers as the drizzle subsided. “No more talk about murder, okay? I just wanted to tell you. In case you remember some strange Japanese significance about paper fans that I don’t.”

  “Besides the wedding thing, no. Did he write anything on it?”

  “Tenshi. Angel. In some kind of drippy kanji with an ink brush. He did a pretty good job, actually.”

  Kyoko grunted. “The angel thing again. Have I mentioned before that angels, since they’re supposedly part of the supernatural afterlife, usually symbolize death? Or in some cases—”

  I cut her off. “You’ve mentioned it.”

  “Fine. Remember that,” she growled. “So our mugger knows something about Japanese culture then.”

  “Or thinks he does. The brush strokes for the kanji were good, but you can tell the stroke order’s wrong.”

  “So he’d copied the kanji rather than drawing it himself from rote. Dead giveaway of a gaijin foreigner trying to pass himself off as a Japan-ophile.”

  Kyoko fell silent a long time, and I tried in vain to turn her attention to other topics. Until she gave a loud gasp.

  “What?” I jumped. “Don’t do that. You’re scaring me.”

  “What color ribbon did he tie on the sensu?”

  Dread pooled in my stomach like noxious water. “Why?”

  “Just tell me. It wasn’t red, was it?”

  Ohhhhh boy. I inhaled a long, shuddering breath. “Yes. Does that mean something? I know red has to do with love in Japan, but it’s a bit obscure.”

  “Oh no. It’s far more than simple love, Ro.” Kyoko’s voice sounded ominous, like the thicker bank of dark clouds brooding in the eastern sky. “In old Japan, red ribbons meant connectedness—destiny—two souls meant to be together. Similar to the Chinese idea of a ‘red string of fate.’ No matter where the two go, the string cannot be broken.”

  I said good-bye to Kyoko and drove toward the familiar little brick post office in Churchville, its American flag quivering in a dull, humid breeze as if trying to rouse itself from sleep. Then I parked between two vans in a side lot of a hardware store to be safe, keeping Faye’s Escort out of sight.

  I clacked my way across the post office parking lot in my boots, Kyoko’s words about red ribbons ringing in my ears, and tied Christie in a rain-free overhang—just long enough to retrieve my precious box of apartment stuff. All covered with Japanese customs forms and clear ribbons of tape.

  “Here ya go.” Sandra the postal worker hefted it onto the counter as I pushed back my sunglasses, inhaling sweet post office scents of stamp glue, cardboard, and inky stamp pads. A hefty woman to my left counted out change for a roll of stamps, taking her time. “What’d they send ya, bowling balls?”

  “With Kyoko, that’s entirely possible.”

  I’d just thanked Sandra, shouldering my box and preparing to push open the glass door, when she waved me back. “I think we got an overnight for ya, too, Shiloh. Hold on a sec.”

  “Already?” My heart leaped. “From California, maybe?”

  “That’s the one. It come this mornin’.”

  Sandra rummaged in the back until she found the thick padded envelope, and she pushed it across the counter toward me. “Here ya go. Have a good’n.”

  She slapped the counter in her friendly way and turned to help Stamp Woman, who was fretting over a missing nickel, turning her coin purse inside out. But I just stood there, savoring the final missing piece of my wedding dress tucked in thick paper. Afraid to open the envelope and yet straining to hold the silk in my fingers. Feel the heft and turn it in the light.

  I set my Japan box on the counter and ripped open the envelope tabs, fingers shaking. Removed the thick layers of tissue paper. And pulled out a gorgeous stream of scarlet, which puddled in my hands like water. Soft as petals. Delicately embroidered. I wrapped it around my waist with a whispering sound, the long ends rippling down, weightless, like water.

  “It’s perfect,” I breathed, turning the silk in the light to see it shine.

  “You gonna wear that?”

  I glanced up to see Sandra quirking an eyebrow at me. The bell on the door tinkled another customer’s entrance, and I straightened up, embarrassed. “Oh. Sorry. It’s for my wedding dress.”

  That sounded even more stupid. But before I could correct myself, the next customer stepped around us and up to the far side of the counter, dirty baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Hands nervously clenching and unclenching. Face obscured as the woman finally pushed a triumphant nickel across the counter.

  “Package for Townshend,” the man mumbled. “J. B. Townshend.”

  My heart leaped into my throat, and I nearly dropped the silk. My fingers turned clammy as I dropped my sunglasses over my eyes and eased backward, straining to see his face. But he’d turned away, picking at his nails with his keys. Shoulders hunched.

  Stamp Woman took her goods and scooted outside in a cloud of bad perfume, and suddenly all that separated me and Jim Bob Townshend, former fiancé of Amanda Cummings and possible killer, was one measly cardboard box covered in customs labels.

  No, two—as Sandra, like I was seeing double, pushed a nearly identical box onto the counter. Wrapped in customs forms just like mine.

&nbs
p; I reached for my box, palms sweaty, just as he reached for his. And at that exact moment, a wail of police sirens wafted from down the street, making us all turn.

  Jim Bob muttered something under his breath and scrambled for his box, eyes fixed on the street through the blind-slatted window. He careened into me as I whipped around, box in my arms. Jolting my sunglasses loose and knocking my packages and purse onto the floor. Tissue paper and red silk spilled across my cowboy boots.

  He never glanced my way. Never apologized. Just scooped up his box and threw open the glass door then bolted toward the parking lot. Jerking his head over his shoulder toward the sound of sirens and barreling toward his car.

  A silver-gray Taurus with a plastic-covered, broken back window.

  Before I could say another word, he’d already squealed out of the parking space and toward the exit in one overanxious swerve. Face turned away from me. Careening away from the police sirens at top speed, lurching over a curb.

  Sandra and I stared openmouthed in the direction he’d gone.

  “Was that…Jim Bob Townshend?” I finally managed, putting my sunglasses back on my hair and bending to pick up my stuff.

  “Dunno. I ain’t never met him. Heard he’s been in town though.”

  She shook her head. “Rude fella, ain’t he?”

  “And acts like he’s nervous or guilty. Running off from the police like that.” I hefted my box back up onto the counter and stooped to retrieve errant tissue paper.

  Sandra started to turn away then stopped with a start. “Shiloh? Lands, this ain’t yer box!”

  “What?” I froze, hand in midreach for the tissue paper.

  “This’n’s that Townshend guy’s. He musta took yer box by mistake.”

  I scrambled to my feet and grabbed the box, flipping it around to read the label: J. B. Townshend. From a Toyota shipping center. I let out a cry of frustration. “He can’t take my box! I need it!” My hands clenched into fists. “Mom’s letters!”

  “Well, he did.” Sandra ran the computer surveillance videos and shook her head. “See here? He just heard them cops and took off. But I’m shore he’ll bring it back when he sees the address.”