If You Follow Me

by Malena Watrous

The dentist’s own teeth are the color of lightly seeped tea, certainly no advertisement for his business. I never saw them when I was his patient, since he never once took off his goggles and face mask, not even when he pulled the rabbit’s two front teeth, which looked like bloody knitting needles. He wrapped them in a paper towel, dropped them in the garbage can and then backed away, not answering when I asked whether he still wanted those free eikaiwa or “English conversation” classes I’d offered in exchange for his veterinary ser vices. I figured I’d scared him off. I assumed that was the last I’d see of him. But there he was at the first SMILE club meeting, sitting next to his brother. Keiko was there too, in the row behind them, Fumiya to her left and Koji to her right. Behind them sat Ooka-sensei, the elementary school vice-principal, Sakura and Ritsuko Ueno, and Noriko, the high school librarian. Facing me, they looked like a jury. Keiko tried to calm Fumiya as the boy rocked in his seat, mimicking its squeak perfectly.

  At that meeting, Miyoshi-sensei explained that the mayor had initiated SMILE so that the English speakers of Shika could get speeches ready for the upcoming festival to celebrate the signing of the sister-city contract. I was there to coach them. Anyone who didn’t feel capable of writing a speech, but who still wanted to participate—children in particular—could recite a poem. That was a month ago. Every week I ask who wants to practice their speech and no one volunteers. But they all come without fail. They are already in their seats when I arrive. There’s a reason why I know everyone in this room. These are Shika’s English hobbyists, the people who have sought me out.

  “Do you like my plan?” the dentist asks, handing the ball to his brother.

  “Hmm,” the doctor says, “I think your plan is chotto…”

  “In English,” the dentist scolds him.

  “I think your plan is ‘a little’…”

  ‘“A little’ what?” I prod him.

  “Just…‘a little’…,” he repeats, still smiling. In Japanese, you can say that something is chotto… without making a direct criticism. It’s like Mad Libs. Your listener supplies the missing word. I tell him that this doesn’t work in English. “Be direct,” I remind him. “You could say, ‘I think your plan is a little silly,’ or explain why you think it won’t work.”

  “Okay Taichi,” he says, his smile blossoming into a grin. “I think it’s a little impossible. I don’t see how whitening farmer’s tooth for free will lure patients to you.”

  “Simple, Yuji,” the dentist says, rubbing his hands gleefully. “Rice farmer in search of bride will be on TV. Everyone will see his white tooth. It’s so unusual for farmer. Everyone will wonder, how did this happen? It’s amazing! Then they will seek my ser vices too.” He throws the tennis ball over his head, and Noriko catches it.

  “How about whitening my tooth for wedding gift?” she asks him.

  It wasn’t until I started coaching SMILE that I realized that since there was only one dentist in town, Taichi Ishii had to be the man she was marrying. The local matchmaker, Sakura Ueno, also comes to SMILE, trailing after her daughter Ritsuko. During her self-introduction, when Sakura announced, “My hobby is making marriage,” the dentist cleared his throat and said, “I think hobby means for fun, ne? Not for profit…” Sakura responded, “It’s hobby because I enjoy.” I assumed that everyone in the room knew that she had brought the librarian and the dentist together, but no one mentioned it. And Noriko and Taichi never sit next to each other, even though they’re engaged to be married next month.

  “I don’t think so,” the dentist says to his fiancée.

  “Why not?” Noriko asks.

  “You won’t be on TV,” he says. “Also, your teeth are white enough. But maybe you could use…how to say…like a railroad track? To make straighter?”

  “Braces,” I offer.

  “I like your teeth the way they are,” Joe says, and Noriko covers her mouth, hiding a smile or a frown. Joe is seated between Noriko and Ritsuko, his arms draped across the backs of their seats. “I’ve missed you lot,” he says. “I can’t remember the last time I was in Shika.”

  “Eight weeks ago,” says Ritsuko.

  “You remember so well…,” Noriko says.

  “He stayed at our home,” Sakura says. “I made tempura. His favorite.”

  I remember Joe’s last visit too, since it coincided with Valentine’s Day. I had just returned from the elementary school and he was bumming around Shika that week. He attended all of our secretarial classes, and in each one Miyoshi-sensei asked the girls to write him valentines. In the New Horizons textbook, Yumi, Ken, and Pablo were all writing persuasive letters to their local papers, urging people not to litter so that the earth wouldn’t turn into a trashscape. The chapter stressed the idea that persuasive language is specific. “Probably you love Mister Joe so much,” Miyoshi-sensei told our classes. “It’s easy to find reasons why you love him. But why should he love you? Be specific, and persuade him to choose you!”

  At the end of each class, Joe chose his favorite valentine to read aloud and the girls guessed who had written it. I remember quite clearly the valentine that won first place in the freshman secretarial homeroom. “You are cool boy,” Joe read. “I don’t want to be near you. It’s only close. I don’t want to be with you. It’s not close enough. I want to be you.” He turned the card over but didn’t speak. He looked distinctly uncomfortable. I took the card from him. On the back was written, “Ogawa, Haruki,” in pencil letters so faint I could barely make them out. For a moment I hesitated too, not wanting to reward the boy who trapped our cat in the refrigerator. But as I looked at him hunkered down in his chair, willing me not to call his name, I realized that ignoring him was exactly what he wanted. So I picked up the heart-shaped box of chocolates we’d decided to give as a prize, which had come in a care package from my mom, and I held it over his head. “Good job, Haruki!” I said. “You really love Mister Joe!” Joe told me to knock it off, to stop “recruiting for the team,” obviously mortified.

  “I want to talk about homophobia,” I say.

  “Homosexuals?” asks the doctor.

  “Homophobia,” I repeat. “The prejudice against homosexuals.”

  “Oh bollocks,” Joe says. “Here we go…”

  “We often use SMILE to talk about cultural differences,” I inform him. “That’s what it’s for.” Actually, that is not what SMILE is for. But I love having the chance to find out what people here really think about difficult subjects, urging them to be direct, to speak from their hearts. “Yesterday, a boy in the technical class called Miyoshi-sensei a homo,” I begin.

  “Miyoshi-sensei is a homo?” Noriko asks.

  “No,” I say. “I mean, I don’t know about Miyoshi-sensei’s personal life.”

  “He is not married…” the dentist says.

  “Neither am I,” I say.

  “It’s true,” Sakura says. “You are not married…”

  “That’s not the point,” I say. “Why is being gay considered bad?”

  “Because of AIDS,” says Yuji Ishii.

  “AIDS isn’t just a homosexual disease,” I say. “You’re a doctor. You know that.”

  “Of course,” he says, “but in 1985, first case of AIDS in Japan was a homosexual man. It’s documented fact. Not…homophobia. After that, many people believed only homosexuals could spread AIDS.”

  “That’s terrible,” I say.

  “It’s crisis,” he agrees. “Men won’t use condom. They don’t want to seem ayashii.”

  “Perverted,” I translate.

  “Gay,” he says.

  “Don’t kids learn the truth in sex-ed?”

  “Sexed,” Fumiya repeats, turning it into one word and then laughing, wriggling in his seat as Keiko tries unsuccessfully to calm him down. Fumiya has an almost uncanny gift for latching on to the most inappropriate words, which doesn’t really matter since he can’t understand a thing he says. I’m not sure why Keiko brings the boys to SMILE. The conversations are over their heads and
she has to spend most of her time taking care of them. She probably can’t get a babysitter.

  “What is sex-ed?” Yuji Ishii asks. As usual, he doesn’t even look over his shoulder, as if the woman behind him weren’t his wife and the boys weren’t his sons, or as if not seeing the problem meant he didn’t have to help.

  “Sexual education,” I say. “Every student in America has to take it.”

  “You need class to learn how to have sex?” asks Sakura. “Isn’t it…organic-u?” I suspect she’s yanking my chain. She loves to play the provocateur, the cat to everyone else’s mouse. She is a flirt and a tease and a constant embarrassment to her daughter, batting her eyelashes and twirling her long hair around her heavily jeweled finger and asking questions just to get people to say outrageous things.

  “Sex-ed teaches kids how to avoid getting pregnant or catching diseases.”

  “But how?” she asks.

  “Well,” I say, thinking back, “in my sex-ed class, we learned about different kinds of birth control and how to use them. We practiced putting condoms on bananas.”

  “Ayashii,” she says.

  “It’s not perverted,” I say. “The point is to show kids that sex is normal, not something to be ashamed of, so they’ll make smart choices and stay safe.”

  “In another prefecture,” Doctor Ishii says, “some teachers tried to teach sex-ed using anatomically correct dolls. But many parents protested. They say sex is private, not suitable subject for school. We shouldn’t talk about it so directly.”

  This strikes me as absurd in a place where condoms and dildos and boxed sets of panties (allegedly worn by the pubescent girls pictured on the boxes) are sold in vending machines alongside soda and tea, beer and cigarettes. Then again, maybe the whole point of the condom and sex toy vending machine is anonymity, to spare the customer that humiliating moment at the counter. Solutions here are often chillingly pragmatic. Recently the police broke up a high school prostitution ring. Teenaged girls were performing ser vices for middle-aged men, who’d call their cell phones to arrange meetings at love hotels. The solution? Ban cell phones for female students.

  “If guys won’t use condoms then why isn’t there more teen pregnancy?” I ask, realizing that I’ve never seen a pregnant girl here.

  “There is,” Yuji says. “Japan has high rate of pregnancy termination.”

  “Abortion?” I say. “Are they easy to get?”

  “Hai,” he says. “I mean, yes.”

  Ritsuko stands up and pulls up the hood of her coat, which she never took off. She apologizes for leaving early, explaining that she doesn’t feel well. As her mother starts to put on her coat too, Ritsuko tells her that she wants to walk.

  “But it’s raining,” Sakura says.

  “Daijoubu,” Ritsuko says. I’ll be fine.

  “I can give her a ride,” Joe offers, already standing up.

  “No,” Ritsuko says. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “It’s no bother,” Joe says, rushing to open the door for her. She hesitates, then steps through, out into the night. As it closes behind them, I ask who wants to practice their English speeches. No one raises a hand. “Don’t be shy,” I say, as they all avoid my eyes and shift in their seats. “Yuji?” I say. “Eh…” The doctor stalls. “I am so busy with so many patients…”

  “So many patients,” the dentist echoes.

  “Keiko?” I try. “Why don’t you make a speech?”

  “English is not useful in my life,” she says, looking right at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “My wife is upset because she can’t come to New York,” Yuji says. “It’s not a vacation, ne?”

  “So I guess you won’t take golf clubs?” she asks.

  “Chotto…” he begins, “I mean, you’re being a little…”

  “A little what?” she digs. “A little disappointed? A little fed up?” Listening to her vent, I believe I understand why these people come to SMILE. They don’t need much urging to be direct.

  I remind the group that they don’t have to write an original speech. They can recite a poem or the lyrics of a song. I tell them to stop by my house any evening this week if they want to practice with me in private. “It won’t be a contest if no one competes,” I say. It will be a disaster.

  Sakura gives me a ride home, so I get back a little early. Carolyn obviously didn’t expect me. She is lying on the futons in our bedroom; she is naked and she is touching herself. I freeze with my hand on the doorknob as she freezes with her hand between her legs. She fumbles for the covers while I go to the window, open it wide and stick my head out, feeling like a dog in a car, wishing I were on my way somewhere else, anywhere but here. For the first time, I can smell spring in the air. For the first time in ages, I can smell the sex in our bedroom. Lately, whenever I reach for Carolyn, she says that she’s frozen, that she can’t feel anything, there must be something wrong with her. I always end up reassuring her that there’s nothing wrong with her, that lulls are normal in any relationship, that she’ll thaw. And I guess there is nothing wrong with her after all.

  “I should have knocked,” I say. “Sorry.”

  “You’re mad,” she says, joining me at the window, cocooned in blankets. “Don’t be upset. It’s not about you.”

  “Obviously,” I say.

  We both face the street, neither of us speaking for a while.

  There were three futons in the closet when we first moved in. At first we slept with them in a stack, our limbs intertwined, anchoring each other on that narrow raft. Then we started placing two of them side by side with the third in the middle, a cushioned hump that allowed us to be close but sprawl a little. Lately, however, Carolyn has started moving the third futon back and forth, transferring it between the other two, which are separated by a widening gap on the tatami. She’s so fair it’s almost stingy. One night she gets the extra padding. The next, I come upstairs and find that I’m the lucky one.

  “If you’re not attracted to me anymore, I wish you’d just admit it,” I say.

  “Are you still attracted to me?” she says. “Because it really doesn’t seem like it.”

  “Don’t turn this around,” I say. “At least I’m still trying.”

  “But that’s what it feels like,” she says, her voice cracking. “Like I’m homework, something to check off in a to-do list. It’s not sexy.”

  “So this is my fault too?” I say.

  “Just answer my question, and be honest for once. Don’t say what you think I want to hear. Are you still attracted to me?”

  “No,” I say. The word is out before I can think about it, the verbal equivalent of a door slamming. “Not lately,” I add, slipping my foot in the door. “But that doesn’t mean—”

  “Just stop,” she cuts me off. “You want this to be over too, but you don’t want to be the one to call it quits. You want it to be my fault. That’s why you keep pushing me to say that we’re breaking up.” She takes my hand. “It’s no one’s fault. Relationships change. Most of them end. Maybe we should just feel good that we made it this long.” Her words are harsh but her tone is gentle, and part of me knows that she’s right. That part of me wants to soften. It would be a relief to stop fighting, to give up. To give in. But her fingers are sticky and I pull away. When I climbed the stairs to our bedroom, my heart didn’t pound in anticipation. When I saw her masturbating, I didn’t feel turned on. I can’t remember the last time I felt that tug in my belly, the insistent tug of desire. No—I’m lying. It was the night I kissed Miyoshi-sensei.

  “My supervisor has a spare room,” she says. “She offered to let me live there for the rest of the year. I think I’d like that, being part of the community where I’m teaching. She wouldn’t charge me anything, so I could keep paying my half of the rent here.”

  “Great,” I say. “It sounds like everything’s all worked out. Nice timing.”

  I’m turning twenty-three this week. If Carolyn remembers that my birth
day is coming up, she hasn’t mentioned it.

  “I’ve been waiting for months,” she says. “She offered to let me move in after I told her that Haruki killed our cat. You have no idea how hard it’s been for me to have to see him every day. I know you weren’t as upset as I was, but—”

  “Stop telling me how I feel!” I explode. “You think you know everything, but you don’t. I killed the cat.”

  “What are you talking about?” she says, smiling uncertainly. “No you didn’t.”

  “The day before she died, I brought home flowers and she ate them and got sick.”

  “That was the night she didn’t come home,” Carolyn says. “You said not to worry. You told me she’d be home when she got hungry.”

  “Because,” I say, “something was wrong, and it was my fault, and I didn’t want you to know.”

  Nakajima’s cell phone starts to ring from my pocket. I heard he sang a sweet song… I push what looks like the Off button, but this just makes it ring louder so I take it downstairs and into the storage area, glad to leave the bedroom, this discussion, Carolyn and her narrow, accusatory eyes. I shove the phone into a box, slam the door behind me and curl up on the cockroach couch.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  samishii: (ADJ.) lonely; solitary; desolate

  During first period, I stand at the faculty room windows and watch the freshman secretarial girls swim laps in the newly filled pool. They look like synchronized swimmers in their matching pink bathing suits and caps, kicking and lifting their arms in unison. Only Haruki Ogawa is not among his classmates. When he claimed that his swimming trunks had “vanished” from his locker, Miyoshi-sensei asked me to supervise him in the faculty room during my free period. Now he is sitting at Miyoshi-sensei’s desk, doing the same nothing he always does: just taking up space.

  “Why did you kill our cat?” I ask, standing over him with a cup of hot tea. I don’t know if he understands or not. His face remains as inexpressive as a pudding, his hands lumps of dough. I imagine these hands scooping up our cat, thrusting her into the fridge and slamming the door. I imagine him pressing his bulk against the door, listening to her cries get fainter and then stop. Up close, his body emits a sour, moldy smell, like laundry that has been left in wet piles. I’ve seen the technical boys following him around, flapping their hands in the air and saying, kusou, “you reek.” He really does.