Nakamura Reality

by Alex Austin

  “Good luck,” she mouthed to him.

  “Thank you,” Hugh said. He watched her push her cart away. Why had she said that? he wondered, but fearing a mundane response, let her disappear down the boulevard.

  Turning on his computer, he then opened Albert’s envelope, slipping out the contents, of which he expected little, but who knew . . . ?

  Radiohead’s “Paranoid Android” played. Hugh pulled out his cell phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hugh Mcpherson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hey, this is Rob at San Diego News. I’ve got it.”

  “The paper? The San Diego Sol?”

  “Mint condition.”

  “Goddamn, that’s great.”

  “One hundred dollars, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Plus postage.”

  “Whatever. Can you send it right away?”

  “I’d like to get paid first.”

  “I’ll send you a check today. Cash if you like.”

  “You use PayPal?” asked Rob.

  The mechanics of the transaction completed, Hugh hung up his phone. He should have asked Rob to describe the boat, but fuck it. He’d have the paper within a day.

  He recalled the last of his conversation with Janet. To Hugh’s questions about the company’s operations, Janet told him that the company was pretty much like a dozen other special effects and fabrication companies that she’d worked for. Pretty ordinary. It was only their end product that people found amazing.

  Was the end product ten years ago the kidnapping of his sons?

  Hugh spread the envelope’s contents across the table. There were a half-dozen glossy brochures, copies of maintenance records, copies of registrations and permits. He didn’t know what he expected to find among the material, whose only purpose was to sell a boat. He leafed through the records, the registrations. Pointless. There were several brochures for the Tempter. He scanned the information and then pushed that group aside. Despite the woman he had encountered on Albert’s boat, he wasn’t convinced that Abe’s predilections were confined to adult females, and who could know about his father? For sure such information wouldn’t be found among brochures . . . He would have to go online, bring up those sites that disclosed the names of pedophiles. The last piece he opened was the most substantial and the least promising: the annual report of the Goto Corporation, the boat’s manufacturer. He leafed through glossy color photographs of the company’s boat manufacturing operations and detailed captions of the materials and processes that went into a Goto motor yacht. There were financial tables and earnings reports, messages from the director of this and predictions from the director of that. Toward the end of the report were smaller photographs depicting other branches of the corporation. They were impressive in their diversity: Pharmaceuticals, Agriculture, Restaurant Equipment, Newspaper Chains, Nursing Home Chains. On the inside cover of the brochure was a list of all Goto’s holdings, with accompanying Internet addresses. Hugh scanned the list, not much surprised when he came across: Nakamura Reality. The next familiar name was less expected: High Meadow Mortuaries and Cemeteries USA, where Albert’s father had been buried. At the end of the list in modest miniscule type was the address of the corporate headquarters: Kobe, Japan. He thought again of Gina.

  The water mister came on. Hugh closed his eyes, tilted back his head and let the vapor cool his skin. Wet his eyelids. The pages of a calendar blew away like leaves, a device in an old movie. Gina had persisted with her solicitations until, until . . . He opened his eyes underwater.

  He felt like a child who has been turned about a dozen times to induce dizziness. Giddy with the loss of balance, afraid but compelled to move. She stopped calling when the boys died.

  Fetching his computer, he found a free table inside, plugged in and powered up, sitting with his back to the window. The Vista ringworm went round and round as if burrowing into a host.

  Hugh typed in High Meadow’s URL. The site came up. High Meadow Mortuaries and Cemeteries, the logo’s graphics earth-toned, dignified and compassionate. Beneath the logo, a modest gravesite surrounded by brilliant flowers housed pull-down menus. Among the choices was one for locations. Hugh clicked to get the list, found Simi Valley, CA, and clicked again. The page that loaded was identical to the first except the logo now read High Meadow Mortuaries and Cemeteries of Simi Valley. The same large photo was used but the pull-down menus had changed. As he drew the cursor across the photo, a roll-over photo appeared revealing the entrance to High Meadow Simi Valley. The same wrought iron gates in Albert’s photo opened to show an asphalt road winding through the inviting grounds. Broad fields of tall grasses, flowers and artificial brooks.

  Hugh clicked on A Visual Tour of High Meadow. A dozen small photos appeared, each captioned with the name of particular sections of the cemetery: Oak Knoll, Sunrise, Little Pond . . . Clicking on the section took him to more photos of each section and further nested photos within these. He chose a section and surfed through its photos. He paused at one gravestone, whose dates surprised him: Born March 4, 1841. Died January 16, 1888. He wouldn’t have supposed that the cemetery was that old, for it seemed like a modern corporate enterprise. No doubt Goto had acquired the original cemetery, expanding it exponentially. He thought he remembered reading that Forest Lawn had started that way. He considered the dates on other tombstones. That a life could be encompassed that way seemed to miss the point. Well . . . He clicked through to Little Pond. Here was a child whose life had not spanned three years. He doubled-clicked to enlarge the photo. Wantanabe, Asami, born August 27, 2006. Died June 7, 2009. In loving memory . . . He imagined the parents’ sorrow, their hearts like brittle leaves. As he touched the mouse to escape, he pulled back his hand. He leaned closer to the screen, staring at the gravestone behind the child’s. The name on it was Mcpherson. For a moment he couldn’t remember if his sons had been buried: not buried of course, for there was nothing to bury. Had there been a service even? No, Setsuko would not agree to any sort of formal service. In her own way, she refused more than he did to believe they were dead. He moved the cursor over the gravestone and zoomed closer. H. Mcpherson. He slid the photo up to see the birthdate: Born: September 16, 1962. Hugh’s birth date. He drew up the photo: Died July 15, 2000: the day his boys had drowned. The epitaph read: “In Loving Memory.” It did not say whose memory. He right-clicked on the image, selected save target and stored the photo in his pictures folder, naming it High Meadow 1. There was a math problem that asked what was the probability of two people in a group of twenty-five—a classroom of students, let’s say—being born on the same day? The math worked out that it was probable that two in thirty were born on the same day. It was counterintuitive, but the math was there. Surely there were numerous H. Mcphersons, and if there were more than thirty, many would have the same birthday; but it was not just the birthday, it was the year, the probability would drop with that. And then the same date of death as his sons. The coincidence seemed improbable, and yet, what other explanation?

  Chapter 24

  Hugh took Valley Circle to Box Canyon, driving the winding road at almost twice the speed limit, roaring down the grade that opened into Simi Valley.

  He drove seven miles north on the 118 freeway and exited on the surface street that led to High Meadow. The mortuary and cemetery were at the end of the street, which intersected a road that extended several blocks and set the limits of the complex. The mortuary was to the left, adjacent to a parking lot, which was separated from the cemetery by a row of eucalyptus trees. The gate to the cemetery was a half block to the right. Hugh turned and drove through the gate, stopping at a booth where a guard smiled.

  “Here you go,” said the guard, handing him a folded map. “Are you here for a service?”

  “No, I’m just . . . considering.”

  The guard smiled. “Take your time.”

  Hugh followed the one-way road that wound through the park, pulling to the roadside after passi
ng the first section of graves. As he unfolded the map, a hearse cruised past. Fifty yards farther down the road, a number of cars were parked. The mourners were gathered around a priest reading from a Bible. Men were peeling back their jackets. Women fanning themselves with their programs. The priest looked up from his Bible. Several of the mourners followed his gaze. A dense white cumulus cloud formed the shape of an inverted mountain, which rendered the cemetery upside down, relocating the graves into the sky. A gravedigger was opening the ground with a shovel and the pitched dirt fell to the earth like dirty snow. Hugh returned to the map and located Little Pond. He drove past the mourners and continued for another quarter mile, pulling up behind a Prius. A few yards away a woman kneeled before a grave and arranged flowers. For a while the gravesites were unbothered except for the alighting birds and scampering squirrels.

  He reached Little Pond and parked at the roadside. There were several hundred gravesites in the area, among them many Kobayashis, Saitous and Tanakas. The cemetery must have catered to the Japanese-American community. But the grave he sought stood out among all the Japanese surnames. As he approached, he saw that flowers had been left at H. Mcpherson’s grave.

  Hugh studied the stone’s inscription for several minutes, but could draw nothing else from the engraving. He picked up one of the flowers and sniffed. The fragrance was gone.

  “She is High Meadow,” answered the guard when Hugh returned to the gate to inquire if Gina still worked at the cemetery.

  “Where could I find her?”

  “She’s out showing some properties. You want me to call her?”

  “No, that’s all right. Where is she?”

  “Oak Knoll.” The guard pointed.

  Following the guard’s direction, Hugh walked toward the Oak Knoll section, in the center of which three people were standing. Two, apparently a husband and wife, faced him. The third was a tall, dark-haired woman in a pants suit. She gestured about her, touching the arms of the couple as she made her points. Hugh waited. The cloud mountain was dissipating, its peak rounding as if a million years had passed.

  By the time Gina shook hands with the couple and turned them toward their car, the mountain in the sky had vanished.

  As the couple drove off in their red Escalade, she snapped her notebook against her thigh. She turned toward Hugh as if she had known he was there all the time and walked toward him.

  Gina was Asian-American, and likely Japanese-American. She was tall, though not as tall as Setsuko. Her stride reminded him of Setsuko’s, like someone who could walk to the guillotine with self-possession.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Gina?”

  “Yes. And you are?”

  Gina appeared no older than forty-five, which meant she couldn’t have been more than twenty-five when he had first spoken with her, yet at the time he had thought her at least sixty years old. Rather than someone hawking gravesites, she looked more like an ex-ballerina. Her voice seemed feeble on the phone. Here it was strong, resonant. Her appearance was the antithesis of the telephone saleswoman.

  “Pirie,” he said.

  “Hello, Pirie.” She had a firm handshake. Her fingers were long and supple like Setsuko’s.

  “Are you looking for a wife?” she asked in a musical voice.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Are you looking for a site?”

  “Oh, yes. I am . . . looking.”

  A loud clunk drew his glance in the direction of Little Pond. An indistinct figure drove a shovel into the earth. There was a second clunk.

  “We’re having problems with the backhoe. We have to do it the old-fashioned way.”

  “Is there another Gina here?” asked Hugh, unable to reconcile the voice.

  “No.”

  “Perhaps fifteen or twenty years back?”

  “No. I’m the only Gina that’s been here. Why do you ask?”

  “Many years ago you tried to sell me a site.”

  “I did?”

  “You called many times. You were persistent.”

  She laughed. “I’ve heard less flattering descriptions.”

  Hugh smiled. “I imagine persistence is the most important quality of a salesperson.”

  “That and knowing what the customer wants, even if the customer doesn’t know himself.”

  “I didn’t recognize your voice. I recalled it much differently.”

  “Ah, well, I do have my little tactics.” She cleared her throat. “He-hello, this is Gina from Hi-High Meadow,” she said in the quavering voice that Hugh remembered.

  “That’s good.”

  “In this business it’s a turn-off to sound too slick.”

  Hugh nodded and said, “In Little Pond, there’s a grave with a headstone that says H. Mcpherson.”

  “Oh, then you’re visiting.”

  “I’m Hugh Mcpherson.”

  She gazed at him. “Doesn’t Pirie begin with a P?”

  “Pirie’s my middle name. I’ve been using it lately. My first name is Hugh.”

  “Ah,” said Gina.

  “Just a coincidence, I guess,” said Hugh. “I mean about the names.”

  “I think we can assume that,” said Gina, stretching her neck to one side as if getting out a kink.

  “You called for eleven years, and then you stopped.”

  “Well, I guess I got my Mcpherson. I always get my man,” she said, offering an innocent look that might offset her frivolity.

  “You confused him with me?”

  “I doubt that.”

  “But you stopped calling?”

  “Coincidence, I suppose,” said Gina.

  “Could I get some information on H. Mcpherson?”

  “Are you related?”

  “It’s possible. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “There are these great sites online—”

  “I know, but I’m here now. I just want to know a couple of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Where he lived. What he did for a living.”

  “I’m quite busy. What are you trying to accomplish?” asked Gina, stretching her neck again but in the opposite direction.

  “I want to fix a hole so the rain can’t get in.”

  “And stop your mind from wandering?”

  “Yes. That’s it.”

  “Where it will go. This way.” She turned sharply, took a step.

  “Gina?”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s your last name?”

  “Goto. Gina Goto.”

  He followed her back to the mortuary where she had Hugh wait in the lobby while she went back to her office. Behind a solitary desk sat a small, expressionless man in a suit. On one coffee table, a half-dozen magazines were arranged in the shape of a cross. From the transverse, Hugh took a gardening magazine and leafed through it. He exchanged the gardening magazine for a consumer guide, thumbed through it and then set it back.

  He walked about the lobby. There were a half-dozen closed doors, viewing rooms no doubt. He came to a door marked Display Room, tried the handle, which turned, and opened the door.

  The room housed a dozen elevated caskets, arranged along a circular wall from least to most expensive—plain as a packing carton to elaborate as a king’s crown. Hugh walked the circuit, noting that each had an individual tune that played while the viewer stood near the coffin. “Heaven, heaven is a place where nothing, nothing ever happens . . .” Was that really piping from a little speaker? He reached the last coffin, an ivory beauty with golden handles. He pulled up, but the casket barely budged.

  “Be careful. That’s $10,000.”

  A child stood at the entrance. A Beatles haircut and loose khaki painters’ overalls rendered the child sexless. Perhaps nine or ten, the child had a lovely delicate face. He or she walked over to Hugh’s side and, standing tiptoe, peered into the casket. She, for Hugh had determined it was a girl, stroked the silk lining.

  “Silk. Very expensive.”

&nb
sp; “Yes.”

  “Do you know how silk is made?” she asked.

  “I think so. But why don’t you tell me,” he suggested.

  “They breed thousands of worms and then they mash them.”

  “Mash them? Are you sure?”

  “Like mashed potatoes. Do you like mashed potatoes?”

  “My favorite kind.”

  “I like the ones from the Stonefire Girl.”

  “Grill.”

  “That’s what I said. They have garlic in them. Garlic is what you use to ward off vampires.”

  “Does it work?”

  “I don’t believe in vampires. There is—are certainly none here.”

  Hugh bared his teeth. She bared hers back.

  “My name is Lily.”

  “Lily. What a pretty name. I’m Hugh.”

  “No you’re not. You’re yourself.”

  “H-u-g-h.”

  “Huge?”

  Hugh respelled his name, but it was unnecessary. Lily smiled at his naïveté. She reminded him of Thelma, the little girl who had been misplaced in his English Learners class at the middle school. Thelma was ten years old, but her English was perfect and she was always a step ahead of his instruction.

  “Do you know who my mother is?”