“We’re competing with nature and she always wins. Then again, she has a big head start.”
Terry strode over to the TV and hit the input button. The puzzle disappeared and the screen filled with an image of dozens of girls dressed all in red, singing a shrill Japanese pop song.
“What are you doing?” Jordan protested.
“It’s Omisoka, mate. New Year’s Eve,” Terry said. “Over here that means toshikoshi noodles and Kohaku Uta Gassen on the telly.” He passed Jordan a plate of soba noodles with scallions and sat down on the couch. Terry overwhelmed the sofa and there was nowhere else to sit so Jordan awkwardly sat on the floor.
“It’s their Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving in one, the big holiday. Everyone watches this shit—” he jerked his chin at the television where the girls had finished and three boys in white were coming out “—or goes out to the shrines.” He shoveled a mound of glistening noodles into his mouth, lipping them in as he spoke.
“Kohaku’s a singing competition, kind of team American Idol, boys versus girls. I don’t really get it but they’ve been doing it forever. Crazy for it.”
Jordan was transfixed. A round-faced man with a porkpie hat was singing and playing a tiny stringed instrument while dancers in traditional Japanese costume high-kneed around him, hitting tiny taiko drums. Then another girl group, indistinguishable from the first. And then it seemed like the finale. Over a hundred men and women were on the stage; it looked like the climax of an opera or Broadway musical. There was a group of women in sleek gray ’30s suits, a dozen men dressed like country-fair barbershop quartet singers and, behind them all, a massed choir of men and women dressed in lavender robes. An older man with a few wisps of combed-over gray hair was singing with a querulous vibrato as a young girl gazed up at him in solemn, dewy-eyed admiration. Finally they all burst into song together, bowed to thunderous applause and it was over. The image jumped to a news reporter outside a shrine. People were milling around seemingly aimlessly. There was a shaky shot of a huge bell.
Then it rang. It sounded like it was just outside. Jordan jumped. The bell rang again, a little farther away, then immediately again closer. Jordan realized bells were ringing everywhere, on TV and all over Tokyo. The bells went on and on. After several minutes Jordan looked quizzically at Terry, the last of his noodles forgotten.
“A hundred and eight. Once for each of our earthly desires, the causes of all our suffering.” Terry smiled broadly. “Extra points if you can name them all.”
15
ONE
Stephanie stood in the sunken living room of Alex’s apartment looking out over the city. In the reflection she saw herself and the apartment behind her suspended over the city in ghost form. She found that by focusing her eyes she could make one world, the city or the apartment, more real and substantial and push the other into a tenuous limbo. She saw the long U-shaped couch behind her to the right. Sophie and Haden looked tiny on it. Each had claimed a limb of the U, and both, despite Haden’s bold predictions earlier over homemade pizza and furtive sips of prosecco, were curled up sound asleep. Ryan Seacrest’s cloyingly youthful face rippled in front of her, reflected in the glass as his voice rose in anticipation behind. The city sparkled, distant fireworks briefly painting the mirrored side of the Hancock Tower.
A lone set of headlights caught her attention, pulling her focus to the world outside as they wound their way up the hill across the city in Charlestown. It seemed like no one else was on the road. Late to their New Year’s Eve party. Stephanie was rooting for them. Come on, you’ve got time, she thought as the lights darted forward, then stopped at another interminable and pointless red light.
The countdown had started on the TV. “Nineteen! Eighteen...” The glittering Times Square ball twinkled, its reflection suspended like a hologram over Back Bay. In the mirror world of the apartment she saw the man in the kitchen dry his hands and walk toward the woman standing motionless inches in front of her.
“Fifteen! Fourteen!”
The car was moving again, and as her eye followed it the city below came into focus and the mirage apartment faded. There was a sudden intake of breath, like a little cry from the sofa. She turned her head and watched Haden turn over and settle back into deep sleep.
“Ten! Nine!” She turned back to the window and the superimposed realities. The man was right behind the woman; he put his hands on her shoulders.
“Make a wish,” Alex said. The ball was going down, yet appeared to hang motionless, shimmering in air.
“This is going to be a good year for you. You’ll see.” His hands gently squeezed her shoulders. “You’re due.” In the reflection he smiled. In Charlestown the headlights stopped and winked out. They’d made it.
“Four! Three!” The crowd in Times Square had trebled in intensity for the last ten. “One...”
Car horns started sounding from below. Did she imagine the slightest increase in pressure from his right hand and corresponding decrease from his left, Ouija board pressure, or was it her own impulse that caused her to turn around into the hard warmth of his chest and tip her head back as he kissed her? It was like falling and being held at the same time. It had been a very long time. Stephanie couldn’t remember if she’d made a wish.
On the sofa, Sophie frowned and closed her eyes tight.
16
JET
The children sat in even rows, their mouths open in perfect round Os as they sang. Row, row, row your boat. Rows of Os. Jordan suppressed a smile. The primary consonant was a struggle, though certainly not reduced to the L of stereotype. Jordan had been nervous at first—how was he supposed to manage a room full of seven-year-olds without speaking a word of Japanese?—but it had been fine. His students had turned out to be polite, attentive and unflaggingly earnest. He told them stories—it didn’t seem to matter whether or not they understood him—and he taught them songs. He remembered more songs from Haden and Sophie’s childhood driving playlists and inane television shows than he would have imagined. And when that well ran dry, he pulled out the pop songs. His older class loved to sing the old Kelis song “Milkshake” at the top of their lungs. No one ever asked what it meant.
He taught three classes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and two on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Two weeks in, he was getting the hang of it.
“Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily...” That was a tough one. “Life is but a dream.”
“Very good, everybody, very good. That will do for today. I’ll see you all...” He rummaged around through his papers as if he was looking for something. “When will I see you?”
“Monday!” the children answered in one voice, some giggling; it was a popular game.
“When?”
“Monday!”
“Ah, that’s right. Thank you. Monday. Have a lovely weekend, everybody.”
There was a muted scraping of chairs and rustling of paper as the children gathered their things.
“Thank you, Mr. Patterson.”
Jordan looked down. A boy was standing just in front of Jordan’s desk with his hands nervously crossed one over the other, plaid knapsack hanging off one shoulder. Like all of the students he wore a white button-down shirt with short sleeves and a black tie. The tie was loose and inexpertly knotted and the shirt was coming untucked on one side.
“Thank you, Mr. Patterson,” the boy said again, slowly with some emphasis. He’d clearly practiced it. He bowed.
Jordan was at a loss. “You’re very welcome...” He scanned the seating chart but couldn’t place the kid in the room.
“I’m sorry, what was your name?”
The boy dipped his head again. “I am Ryuichi, Mr. Patterson. You are best English teacher.” His ears flushed red. With a final bow Ryuichi backed up a couple of steps, turned and left, joining the rearguard of the general exodus.
Something was happening in
Jordan’s head; he felt it. His breathing was rapid and shallow.
What was it? His eyes were watering and his chest felt tight. He never thought of them as individuals, only as the group, parts in a homogenous whole. Ryuichi. Almost the same age as Haden.
He shoved his papers in his blue JET-issue drawstring bag and stumbled out the door of the classroom. He bumped hard against a woman who was coming in. He could barely see.
“G-gomennasai,” he stammered as he strode down the hall and out the double doors into the frigid afternoon. It was already nearly dark. He walked down the hill to the subway. Shinjuku Station. Four stops to Roppongi and home. Home, that was a fucking good one.
Haden would be taller. What would his hair be like? He had been talking about cutting it short. Jordan rode the escalator down into the station. It was early rush hour. He hugged the right side as salarymen pushed by on the left. He felt their irritation at his bulky foreignness and hated them for it. As he neared the platform he heard three rising electronic tones. The train would be entering the station. A woman’s voice, calm and efficient, came over the intercom.
Haden. Eventually his voice would drop and he’d sprout the wan beginnings of a mustache and start to smell. And Jordan wouldn’t be there. He pushed forward blindly toward the car. It looked completely full, yet he knew they’d pack dozens more in before the doors slid shut. The press was total as they funneled into the car. Jordan’s toe caught on the threshold as he crossed the gap. He felt the white-gloved hands of the oshiya steady him from behind. He turned his body slightly, easing into the space as efficiently as he could. He must be in direct physical contact with at least a dozen people, he thought, and yet utterly alone.
And Sophie. Jesus, ten! Already she was a wry, articulate little girl with opinions and humor and style, a girl who would grow older, fall in love, get married, have a family, a life. And he would miss it all. He let his body go, collapsing against the bodies around him. They were packed so tight it made no difference. No one noticed that the big American with tears running down his cheeks had lost the will or the ability to hold himself upright. There was nowhere to fall.
He got off at Roppongi and pushed through the crowd pouring out of the station. He felt like he was going to explode.
He needed to be away from people. He heard someone protest as he elbowed past but ignored them. He walked hard up the hill toward his house, head lowered, shoulders hunched awkwardly forward. His eyebrows were bunched and he hissed to himself.
“No one else’s fault. You did it. Feeble fucking pussy.” Traces of spit blew back in his face. He struggled with the key in the lock. Steam roiled off his head. He dropped the key. “Fuck!” Strangled, choked back.
Finally open. He slammed the door behind him, threw the bag of papers in the corner and tore off his jacket and dropped it on the floor. He was bathed in sweat. He pulled his shirt over his head and threw it at the wall. He stood there, fists clenched at his side as he scanned the tiny apartment. This was it. His life. He was shaking.
The rice cooker with its smiling elephant logo. He grabbed it and, ripping the cord from the wall, flung it across the room. It exploded against the washer-dryer. Day-old rice and shards of white plastic. This just made him angrier. He pulled the coffee maker, teakettle and dish rack to the floor in quick succession. Water and coffee sluiced together underfoot. He kicked at the kettle, sending it spinning against the cupboard.
He screamed. No words, just an inchoate howl of rage and pain. His head swung around looking for the next enemy. He grabbed a flimsy pot from the stove and hurled it at the television at the far end of the living area. It bounced off with a harmless ping. This seemed an unbearable affront. He bellowed and charged the TV, grabbing it by the corners and pulling it over. It hung up for a moment, caught on the cords from the Xbox but then its inertia shifted and it swung to the ground, just missing Jordan’s leg. The curved front exploded with a bright pop followed by the tinkling of countless slivers of delicate glass. Jordan kicked at it and a sharp pain shot through his foot. He screamed again, his throat raw and burning.
He barked his shin on the coffee table. He grabbed the glass top and awkwardly flipped it toward the bedroom. It cracked into three pieces; one leaned upright against the doorjamb. Then he turned his rage onto the sofa. With a grunt and throbbing pressure in his temples he ripped the fake leather of the cushions open and tore out the white stuffing. It felt coarse and unnatural on his fingers, and where particles of it stuck to the sweaty skin of his back and chest it itched.
As he looked around, panting heavily, the front door swung open. Dennis stood in the doorway with a grim smile, surveying the wreckage.
“You,” Jordan said, still holding the last eviscerated cushion in one hand.
Dennis’s eyes flitted from Jordan’s face to the cushion to the room beyond. He gave a small shake of his head. “Enough.”
17
KIDS
Terry had a broom, which seemed woefully inadequate to the task of steering the river of water and coffee toward a similarly overmatched dustpan. He had arrived moments after Dennis and had taken charge of cleanup. Dennis sat on what was left of the ruined couch, making little piles of glass with the toe of his shoe.
“So what happened today?”
“Nothing,” Jordan said. “I just can’t do this.”
“Nothing?” Dennis said with a raised eyebrow. Jordan couldn’t look directly at him. There was something utterly primal in the fear Dennis instilled in him.
“There was a kid,” he said after a minute. His eyes were cast down and his posture conveyed total submission.
“Ah.” Dennis nodded.
“How did you...” Jordan started to say.
Dennis reached into his pocket. Jordan flinched, then relaxed when he saw the phone. Dennis flicked his finger over the screen, tapped a couple of times and handed it to Jordan. The screen was divided into six panels. On each a tiny video feed played. As Jordan leaned his head closer, he saw the movement recapitulated with a half second’s delay on two of the feeds. They were streams of the apartment from different perspectives. One, a flickering view of the ceiling, he realized was from the Kinect, which was lying on the floor where it had fallen when he had destroyed the TV.
“Jesus,” he said.
Dennis took the phone and slipped it back into his pocket.
“I came to check on you,” he said. “Word was you were good.” He glanced at Terry, who gave a rueful shrug.
All the fight had drained out of Jordan. He felt cold and his skin prickled where the bits of white stuffing and specks of glass clung to it. He felt like he was supposed to say something but he just stared at the floor. The only sound was the swishing of Terry’s broom.
Dennis finally put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to clean this place up, and you’re going to get your shit together. Monday we start you somewhere else. Got it? No more crazy. You lose it, the consequences are on you.”
Jordan felt the familiar clench of fear at the word consequences. “Okay.” Barely a whisper.
“Good,” Dennis said, moving to the door. “Come on.” This to Terry, who leaned the broom against the counter and followed. “See you around.”
“No kids,” Jordan said.
Dennis turned and looked at him. Then he nodded. “No kids.”
18
:)
Alex paged quickly through the data. Six months in and the cumulative results were still barely better than random. And ROBIN was at eighty-plus percent, which meant the rest were shit. Pfizer was losing patience. He needed to lean on Chun. They needed a working model of ROBIN. His phone vibrated on the desk. Stephanie.
U there?
yup
Need a huge favor
k
Department meeting tonight
, forgot about it. Need someone to stay w kids.
sure
Really?
absolutely
Thank you so much!! They get home a few minutes after 4. I should be back by 6:30
no problem
You’re sure?
totally. don’t worry. on it.
I owe u. Xx
:)
19
BEST FRIENDS
He heard them coming up the walk. Haden was talking fast and loud, trying to explain something he’d just figured out in “Clash of Clans.” Sophie was clearly uninterested and irritated. Alex took out his phone and flipped through his messages. He thought it would seem more casual if he was doing something, not just sitting there, waiting. Haden burst through the front door.
“Mom!” he yelled, dropping his knapsack by the radiator and heading for the kitchen.
He stopped when he saw Alex in the living room.
“Hey, Uncle Alex, what are you doing here? Where’s my mom?”
Sophie appeared behind her brother. “Is she okay?” she said, worry creasing her brow.
“Hey, guys, Mom’s fine. She had to work late and asked me to come over so you wouldn’t come home to an empty house.”
“Cool,” Haden said. “Hey, do you play ‘Clash of Clans’?”
Sophie rolled her eyes and said, “I’m going upstairs.”
“Hang on, Soph,” Alex said. “Listen, you guys want to surprise your mom? I thought we could make dinner.” Haden and Sophie looked at each other dubiously.
“Come on, it’ll be fun. Blitz shopping, come back, throw it together. Piece of cake.”
After a glance at his sister, Haden said, “Okay. What would we make?”
Exit Strategy Page 7