27
From H Street, it was less than two minutes to Burma, and I got a metered spot on the street. Despite all that good luck, I was eight minutes late, and I jogged up the street when I saw Kendall waiting outside the restaurant’s door. She was looking tense, and practically shouting into her cell phone. I had first thought she was leaving a message for me, but as I drew closer I gathered she was talking to Lisa, her au pair.
“No, I want you to give them Tylenol, not aspirin. Aspirin’s not safe for children anymore. Right. One teaspoon per kid.” She paused. “I’ll get some on the way home. Okay. ’Bye.”
“It sounds like the twins are sick?” I asked.
“Yes, as always. I’m beginning to think we live in one of those houses that makes people sick because there’s mold growing in it or something.”
I had heard that new houses were more likely to have problems like that. “Is anyone else in the household suffering?”
“Well, our au pair doesn’t have much energy. Neither does Win. And I can’t say I’m as chipper as I was before we moved in.”
“Well, you do have the kids to run after,” I said. “That can be pretty stressful.”
“Yeah, living with the kids must seem like hell to you. I bet you’re glad that’s a problem you don’t have.” Kendall’s voice was sharp.
I hadn’t told Kendall about the miscarriage because I didn’t trust her. Now I was glad I’d been so private. Keeping my anger in check, I said, “I think children are a gift. You’re very lucky to have Win and Jacquie.”
What was Kendall’s agenda? I wondered as we entered the restaurant. She was in a terrible mood.
Besides us, there were only four other tables with diners. Burma was one of those places that food writers and true gourmets raved about, but its subdued decoration had kept it from attracting the glamour crowd. Those people went to places like Mandala and Zaytinya and Poste, with a few stragglers left over for Bento.
Kendall studied the menu. “Do they have a liquor license? I could use a glass of wine.”
“I doubt it.” My head started to hurt just at the idea of it.
Still, Kendall persisted in asking, and she was told they did, so she ordered a glass of house white to go with her meal. I took iced tea, the wine of the South. The caffeine went straight to my head, helping ease the cloudy, tired feeling that had hung on all morning.
Kendall told me she was counting on me, as usual, to put together our order. I selected the green-tea-leaf salad and another salad of papaya, cucumber, and tomato. I also ordered an appetizer of deep-fried calabash squash served with a tamarind dipping sauce. That would be enough for two women with too much on their minds.
The food came quickly. As I waited for the squash sticks to cool, I asked Kendall what was going on.
“Oh, everything’s falling apart,” Kendall said, taking a sip of wine.
“You mean, the campaign for Harp Snowden?” I hadn’t read anything about him in the papers that week.
“The fund-raising’s fine. I’ve already gotten ten friends to pledge the full legal amount to his campaign. Win has some associates who are willing to pledge, too, but the real estate business being the way it is, he’s going to float them loans so they can make their contributions in time for the dinner. And if memory serves me, you haven’t chipped in yet. You like Harp, don’t you?”
“Kendall, I haven’t been paid by Marshall yet for the work I’ve done. I’d love to contribute money, but at this point, I can’t spare two hundred dollars, let alone two grand.”
“What about Hugh?”
“He’s not a U.S. citizen. Wouldn’t it look bad for Harp to take money from a foreigner?”
“But Hugh’s British. That’s practically American,” Kendall said. “I know there are a lot of rules about financial contributions, but there are ways to get around them if you truly believe in a cause.”
“Hmm,” I said, looking over my shoulder. The restaurant was not crowded, but this was Washington. I hoped nobody would repeat what Kendall had said.
“Anyway, the campaign isn’t my problem. Home life is. Our au pair wants to bolt, and the agency’s saying that they won’t send us another girl because we made Lisa work too hard. It’s like they expect us to hold to a forty-five-hour-a-week schedule for someone with only a high school diploma who’s doing unskilled labor in the home—while I, of course, am at the beck and call of everybody twenty-four hours a day. I try to be at home when I say I’ll be there, but I’ve been late a lot. It takes longer just to get from point A to point B in the springtime. I’ve been meaning to stop by to take your aunt shopping, or at least welcome her to the city, but between the jammed-up roads and my diminishing child care hours, I’ve been gridlocked.” Kendall ended her monologue by flinging her head backward so her red locks spilled everywhere, like the girls in shampoo commercials.
“Cherry blossom traffic is bad, I agree. I was caught up in it myself today.” I was surprised that all she wanted to talk about was herself. Still, household labor was a life-and-death issue for a working mother. “Could you get a second baby-sitter to serve as a backup for the au pair?”
“Do you know what baby-sitters in suburban Washington charge?”
“Six or seven dollars an hour?” I guessed.
“Try ten or twelve,” Kendall said. “And frankly, I don’t have that kind of spare change anymore.”
I could commiserate with that. “It’s weird living here, isn’t it? It’s expensive in a way that is different from Japan. I guess I was more careful there. If I ate at a restaurant, it was a small immigrant place like this one. By the way, I doubt that our lunch for two will cost more than twenty dollars, and just taste it! I think it gives Bento a run for its money.”
“Not on decor, though. Plastic-topped tables aren’t really my thing.” Kendall sighed. “I just don’t understand what’s happening to us. I started doing some freelance consulting, so I’m making more deposits in the bank, but still…things are tight. I can’t buy tickets to other people’s fund-raisers and charity balls. People ask where I’m hiding myself, and I’ve been telling them Harp’s keeping me busy, but that really isn’t true.”
“What about Win?” I asked.
“He’s not going to the parties either. Anyway, he’d be too depressed to go. His work has slowed down.”
“But real estate downtown is booming,” I said. “Didn’t he just sell the building next to Bento? I saw that his sign was gone, and the person who bought it is selling it again—”
Discomfort flashed across Kendall’s face. “The sign changed because he lost the listing. Win doesn’t like to talk about it, okay?”
“I won’t bring it up with him. What about his other listings, the residential ones?”
“Well, he was supposed to be the exclusive listing agent for a new development near Potomac, but that fell through. Win likes that kind of work best, listing properties worth more than a million. The little stuff—two-or three-bedroom ranches in the middle of nowhere—is too much work for the return.”
“So when’s the last time Win bought or sold a property?” I inquired.
“He sold something between Christmas and New Year’s. It was a great big stucco house in Chevy Chase, two million, five.”
I didn’t need to point out to Kendall that it was already April, but I did tell her that I thought she was overlooking a caregiver who would work for free.
Kendall rejected the idea out of hand. “Too demoralizing. Win needs time to pursue business possibilities. Yes, I’d love him to spend more time with the kids, but why push it when he’s having a masculine-identity crisis?”
“Kendall, just listen to me for one minute. You may need to become your family’s breadwinner for a little while. You must cut back on helping Harp Snowden and your other volunteer work so you can start earning money somewhere. Don’t fall in the helpless trap. I speak from experience, okay?”
“What do you mean you speak from experience? Is Hugh having wor
k troubles, too?” Kendall blinked, as if she was coming up from underwater.
“Actually, I don’t know how his work’s going.” It struck me that I hadn’t asked Hugh anything about the class-action suit he’d been working at so doggedly for many months—I’d been too caught up in my own drama. “It’s only that our relationship is on the rocks. Now I understand what our mothers always said about living together before marriage being a losing proposition.”
She gasped. “Oh, I’m sorry! Now I see that you’re not wearing your engagement ring. Did you actually break up?”
“Hugh called off the engagement. We still live together, although I don’t know how long that can last.”
“At least your wedding plans weren’t too far along,” Kendall said. “You didn’t lose any money on deposits or anything.”
I nodded. I couldn’t say any more. We hadn’t lost money. We’d lost a child. There was no way to earn it back, just as there was no way to resuscitate the joy we’d once had together.
“You know, if he broke up with you, the ring is technically yours. That’s what the etiquette books say. You could sell it, if you’re really in dire straits.”
I shuddered at her words. “I returned the ring to him. I would never sell off his family history.”
“It’s a shame. I know a cute jeweler in Georgetown who would love to get his hands on a gorgeous emerald in its original art deco setting. Come to think of it,” Kendall said, with a mischievous wink, “he’d love to get his hands on you.”
Kendall might have revived enough after our conversation to make her usual kind of jokes, but I wasn’t feeling so chipper. What she’d said about Win losing the listing, and being unwilling to take on any but the poshest houses, didn’t bode well for her future. Or Win Junior’s future, or little Jacquie’s.
As I walked back to my car, I passed the sign hanging on the building that Win had once represented. It bore the name of a person, not a real estate firm. I decided to call, just to hear the owner’s version of what had happened.
“I’m confused about something. I wonder if you could help me,” I told the owner, a Martin Schmidt, who sounded as if he was about a hundred years old and had been smoking for most of that century.
“Well, I’m no mind shrinker,” Schmidt said grumpily. “You interested in the building or not? It’s nine ninety-nine, firm.”
Almost a million dollars. That sounded like the kind of money Win liked. “I’m more used to dealing with a real estate agent, actually. What happened with the guy listed on the old for-sale sign, Win Johnson?”
“The screwball,” Schmidt said. “I kicked his ass out.”
“Why?” I asked.
“He was a screwball,” Schmidt repeated. “He priced the building too high for the market, he missed appointments he’d set up with potential clients. When I finally got an offer, he sat on the damn contract for a week before showing it to me. By the time I looked it over and made my counteroffer, it turned out that our buyers had gone and picked up a different property instead. But that wasn’t the last straw—” Schmidt broke off in a major coughing fit.
“What was the last straw?” I asked dutifully.
“He smokes. I caught him doing it up on the third floor one day, when he thought nobody was around. He’d stretched out, made himself at home—”
“Do you mean he smokes cigarettes?” Why should that bother Schmidt, who sounded like he did the same?
“Not cigarettes.” Schmidt sounded irritated. “I smoke a pack of Camels a day myself. It’s crack he was smoking. Crack cocaine. He’s a druggie, which, if you ask me, is why he can’t do his goddamn job.”
Win was an addict. Now everything made sense. The dilated pupils, the disorientation the night Kendall had been taken, and his presence on R Street, near the drug zone. Crack cocaine was probably the reason the Johnson financial accounts were being drained, and if he’d racked up debt, maybe that was the reason for his wife having been snatched. It had been a warning to pay up, or else.
The problem was, I didn’t know how I could talk about it with Kendall. She was already deep in denial about who her husband was, but I had to conclude that she was right about one thing: Win was the wrong person to watch over the twins.
That afternoon at Hugh’s apartment, my aunt was on a packing spree. Her travel agent had arranged a ticket for a flight that was set to leave Dulles the next day at noon. She would take a taxi if I couldn’t drive her.
“Of course I can drive you,” I said. “Hugh would insist that I take you.”
“Oh, no, but he’s going away for a few days,” Norie said. “He’s going to Boston. Maybe he’ll take the car.”
“That’s too far. I’m sure he’ll fly. When did he say he was leaving?” He hadn’t said anything to me in the morning, he’d just left the apartment in silence. Come to think of it, he’d had a carry-on bag with him along with his briefcase.
“He left just an hour ago. He returned to the apartment to speak to me but went out again. He made his apologies.” Norie looked at me sadly. “I don’t like to leave you alone like this. I wish you were coming with me to Japan.”
I brooded about my future, and before I knew it, my vintage Seiko clock had chimed six. I was of two minds about going to the restaurant now that I’d learned what kind of financial stresses it was suffering. It seemed greedy to again push for payment if the restaurant was going to fold. But I needed the money. If I didn’t get it, I’d be on the street.
“Would you like to come to Bento with me for a farewell dinner?” I asked my aunt. Everyone there liked Norie. Maybe her presence would ensure a harmonious transition of the paycheck. Also, I had no idea what to give my aunt for dinner, and I didn’t want her to have to cook for me on her last night in the U.S.
“Yes, but I must take you,” Norie said. “I insist because I was not able to buy your wedding gown.”
In the old days, I would have refused, but not this time, this night. “Thank you. I’ll make sure Marshall gives us some sort of discount and doesn’t put you to work in the kitchen again.”
“That I would enjoy,” Norie said. “I never solved the riddle of where that mysterious Jiro Takeda comes from. When you find out, be sure to tell me.”
“There are so many worse things to worry about. Crime. Drugs. Broken homes.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Norie said briskly. “But the truth about people is important. If we cannot trust the cleanliness of the hand that offers rice, how can we eat?”
28
For a restaurant that was supposed to be on its last legs, Bento didn’t look bad. For one thing, Andrea was out front again, wearing high heels and a bias-cut black-and-white crepe dress. Her hair was swept up in a French twist and opals winked at her ears. But the bored languor she’d once displayed had been replaced by a smile—a bit tentative, but a smile. I watched her greet a couple who hadn’t made a reservation and show them to a lovely table by the window. Then she came back to help us.
“Andrea-san, you are looking steki!” Norie’s compliment on Andrea’s revived appearance came out half-Japanese. Oddly enough, Andrea seemed to understand, because she smiled at my aunt and complimented her in turn on her beaded blue jacket.
“Did Marshall give you the job back?” I asked Andrea. Her clothing was an amazement after the grunge look she’d started off wearing in the morning.
“Uh-huh. That dishwasher they have now, Toro, is turning out to be enough, so Marshall moved me back. I had to return to David’s to get dressed for tonight, and here I am!”
“What about Justin?”
“He figured out that he made more money waiting tables. I could have told him that before he started.”
The unspoken question, of course, was why Andrea didn’t want to wait tables, if it paid more. But Bento didn’t employ women servers, except for the runners who brought things out from the kitchen. So Andrea wasn’t likely to break any barriers that way. And if being a hostess was the gold crown for her, so be it.
There were a few booths along one wall, cushioned in aubergine velvet, totally prized seating that usually went to whoever was the coolest-looking, or most powerful, reservation of the night. Andrea cheerfully led the two of us over to one of the booths.
“Justin will be over in a moment. If he gives you any trouble, tell me and I’ll make sure he gets what he deserves.” Andrea winked and was gone.
“Unbelievable,” I said in Japanese.
“Marshall-san is more kind than I had thought,” Norie said. “He must be in a happy mood tonight. I think you will receive your money.”
“I don’t know about that.” My stomach was already in knots at the prospect of having to ask him for my payment again.
“Don’t worry. Now, what shall I have today? Tuna or crab? I shall miss such luxury when I have to cook again,” Norie said.
“You’ll have some good restaurant meals in Kysh,” I said. “I hear the sashimi there is spectacular.”
“Probably not as good as Okinawa,” Norie said. “Anyway, the town we are going to, Okita, is not for the tourists, my travel agent said. There aren’t any famous restaurants. But perhaps I will be treated to home cooking.”
“You don’t think Atsuko’s family will offer you a meal, do you? That’s so un-Japanese!” Aside from my relatives, I had hardly ever been invited to eat in anyone’s home in Japan.
“We will see,” Norie said. “I have a plan. I hope to have a moment tonight to tell Andrea-san about it.”
“Maybe you should tell me first,” I said. When Norie pressed her lips together without speaking, I added, “I thought you were going to just gather information on whether the letters continued to arrive in Japan. If it turns out they kept sending Sadako’s letters back unopened, they’re probably very uptight about even admitting she exists.”
“So much time has passed,” Norie said. “Perhaps they’ll be grateful to hear what we’ve pieced together. That’s the most important thing, isn’t it?”
I knew what the answer about family acceptance would be: a resounding no. But my aunt was making the trip at her own expense because she’d gotten caught up in the sad story of Andrea’s life. It was a great thing for her to do.
The Pearl Diver Page 24