by Alex Austin
I said it. Oh, I said it—so my fingers could rest there, so she would cry in relief, so she would laugh joyously. Yes, Sandy, we’ll all run away. We’ll live on an island with ceaseless waves for our boards and fruit that falls into our palms. Hitoshi and Takumi will grow to love you . . . forget, forget . . .
Setsuko had heard . . . It was only a fantasy, but it should not have been even that. It should not have been. An hour that he had lost, hidden from himself.
He couldn’t see her again.
He didn’t, or call her or think of her.
Hugh walked into the water, dipped his hand in the bay. When he looked back toward the blanket, the surfboards were gone.
But when he got within fifty feet of his towel, he saw the boards were there, lying flat, no doubt a breeze having knocked them down. He caught his breath. He brushed off the sand sticking to the fresh wax and restored the boards to their upright positions. It was then he noticed the box settled into the sand. He lifted the box, sat down on the towel and opened it. As he began to read, someone yelled.
The shout came from a woman, pulling a small child, thrashing through the water toward shore.
Behind the woman a dorsal fin appeared, and then a second and a third. Screaming children surged and stumbled through the water. A whistle blew. A dozen dorsal fins cut the surface, moving in a tightening circle. Hardly knowing he had taken a step, Hugh was thigh deep in the bay, his arms around a thrashing child.
“Wait! Don’t panic!” said Hugh. “They’re just leopard sharks. They’re harmless. They show up every other summer.”
“But they’re sharks!” a woman protested.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of!”
The lifeguard had jogged to the water’s edge. He waved his hands above his head and grinned to allay the crowd’s fear. “They’re shy. Docile,” explained the lifeguard. “They just eat worms and clams.”
“What are they doing here?” asked a young mother with a baby strapped to her chest.
“They come with their young. It’s safe for them here. Usually they don’t come in these numbers, but they’re harmless. Really. Harmless.” The lifeguard waded out as in demonstration. He pointed. “There’s one right there.” A few yards from the shore a shadowy form rose to show a dorsal fin and then disappeared.
One man waded out. “Why, it’s just like the Galapagos.” He took a few more steps. “Hey, I see one.”
Several more bathers returned to the water.
Leopard sharks.
Above their heads, a seagull circled.
Hugh returned to his blanket, opened the box and took out a manuscript with red covers. He turned back the cover.
Fingal’s Cave by Kazuki Ono.
Hugh turned another page and read, “A few distant lights sputtered on as the plane neared its target, which from an altitude of thirty-two thousand feet was clearly visible beyond a few scattered cumulus clouds. Extraordinary only in its untouched landscape . . .
Two hours later, Hugh rose from his blanket and carrying the manuscript walked into the water. Amidst sharks, Hugh dug his feet into the bay’s primordial mud, and let the appalling words seep into him.
He had never again contacted Sandy, but with more reason she had never again contacted Hugh. Kazuki had found her, paid her just as Katashi had paid Cassandra. But Hugh’s resistance was negligible. Hugh did exactly what Kazuki planned for him to do. The job done, Kazuki paid Hugh’s old girlfriend to disappear. Setsuko could not have known this. Setsuko knew only what she saw and heard.
Was he like Yuudai a danger to his children?
He was not Yuudai, but was he Yuudai in Setsuko’s eyes?
Yes, or she would not have allowed her father’s plan to unfold, his book to be written.
Surely Katashi had lied to Yuudai. For all her will Sumiko could not turn back time, could not become the bird that took the arrow. Besides, the voice behind Katashi’s door called out Dad.
Chapter 45
Leaving Hanna in the car, Hugh entered the Olympic. The lobby was crowded. A three-piece jazz band played “Mood Indigo.” Hugh waited in a line at the reservations desk behind a man in a short-sleeved pilot’s uniform. The man’s forearms were enormous. He was telling a joke to a woman in a cowboy hat. The woman laughed appreciatively.
Five minutes later the clerk smiled and asked, “Checking in?”
“No. I want to speak with Kazuki Ono. He’s a guest here.”
“Oh . . .”
“Is he in his room?”
“Are you a relative?”
“Yes. I’m his son-in-law.”
The clerk’s face tightened. “I’m surprised you haven’t been notified.”
“Notified?”
“Mr. Ono has passed.”
“Passed? Passed as in died?”
“Yes. He passed.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Were you out of the country?”
“No, I—how did he die?”
“Perhaps you should—”
“Please. It’s okay.”
“Natural causes,” the clerk said carefully.
“Here at the hotel?”
“Oh, no, no. It was in the marina. There was a story in yesterday’s paper. Wait . . .” The clerk strode to a door behind the desk. He came out a moment later and handed Hugh the paper. “It’s in the Extra section.”
On August 2, Kazuki Ono, a Japanese citizen, had died in Marina del Rey at Mother’s Beach. There were paragraphs of information about Ono’s writing career. How the English editions of his work sold very well . . . his literary prizes. Numerous ties to America . . . Nothing about children, grandchildren. Funeral services and burial were to be held at High Meadow Cemetery on August 5. As Hugh set down the paper, a small obituary caught his attention: Valdez.
“He’s dead,” said Hugh, getting into the car. “Is he dead?”
Chapter 46
Hugh ignored the flashers of the motorcycle closing on him. He had been over the speed limit, but not by much. If the police found Kyle’s body, Hugh and Hanna would be the prime suspects. Pass us, Hugh prayed. Be on your way to an accident. But the cop remained on their tail. Hugh nudged the accelerator. If he kept driving, the cop couldn’t physically stop him. It would be one of those slow pursuits, and if Hugh got to the cemetery . . .
“Better pull over,” said Hanna.
“This fucking can’t be,” said Hugh. The motorcycle was on his ass now. Maybe ten feet away. Ignoring the insistent swirling light, Hugh sped up.
“There will be a million cops,” said Hanna. “Please, Hugh?”
“I’ll slow down, let you out.”
“You don’t—you can’t.” Hanna clapped her hand over his, squeezed.
Hugh groaned and pulled over.
The helmeted CHP officer waited by his motorcycle for a few moments, recording the Volvo’s license plate and calling in the information. These steps finished, he approached Hugh’s car.
“Sir, may I see your license and registration,” said the officer.
Hugh nodded. The officer bent his head, glanced at Hanna, and then removed his sunglasses. Hugh gazed at the cop.
“Sir, license and registration?”
“Oh, yes.”
It had been almost ten years, but as Hugh extracted his driver’s license and looked up, he recognized the young officer, who simultaneously recognized him.
“Hey, Mr. Mac!” said the surprised officer.
“Arash, right?” responded Hugh.
“Yes, Arash. Man, you’ve got a memory.”
“Cause and effect,” said Hugh.
“ ‘Cause and effect?’ ”
“Arash talks without permission. Arash gets paper pickup. Arash changes chairs without permission. Arash gets paper pick-up.”
The young officer threw back his head, laughed and clapped Hugh’s shoulder. “So how have you been? Still teaching?”
“Yes, same school, same classroom. And look at you. A policeman.”
“Ro
okie year. Can you believe it?”
Hugh turned to Hanna. “One of my former students: Arash. I had him in my class the first year I taught.”
“Cool,” said Hanna.
“Man, we gave you trouble,” said Arash.
“Ah, it was nothing.”
“No matter how pissed off you got, you never yelled.”
“Sure, I yelled.”
“I don’t remember.”
Hugh nodded. “I yelled.”
“Ah, a little, maybe.” Arash looked away, put his hand to his mouth as if he were about to cough. He met Hugh’s eyes, released his words. “You were my favorite teacher, Mr. Mac. You pushed us, but we learned a lot. I learned stuff I didn’t think I could.”
“That means a great deal to me,” said Hugh.
Arash nodded. “Yeah, yeah. So what are you doing in Simi?”
“A funeral. High Meadow.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Mac. Family?”
The police radio crackled. Arash excused himself and walked back to the motorcycle. In his rearview, Hugh watched Arash converse for several minutes on his radio. Arash was expressionless as he walked back to Hugh’s car. If they had found Kyle’s body and were looking for Hugh and Hanna, Arash would quickly put memories of middle school behind. Hugh pressed the clutch to the floor, started the engine and shifted to first.
“Hey,” said Arash as he came within an arm’s length of the car, “are you running late?”
“Excuse me?”
“For the funeral?”
“Well, yes, actually.”
“That’s why—” Arash grinned and put away his ticket book. “Need an escort?”
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
“Glad to. Where did you say?”
“High Meadow,” replied Hugh.
“Cause: Late for a funeral. Effect: CHP Escort,” said Arash with a grin. He returned to his bike, mounted and shot in front of the Volvo.
Hugh followed the motorcycle, siren blaring and lights flashing, as they continued into Simi.
“Wow, you lucked out,” said Hanna.
At the cemetery gates, Hugh shook Arash’s hand. “You’re about the same age as my sons,” said Hugh.
“You got sons? Never knew. Great.”
As Arash mounted his motorcycle he called out, “Watch your speed. We don’t mess around in Simi.”
“Back again?” asked the gate guard.
Hugh nodded. “The Kazuki Ono services?”
“Oak Knoll section. Just drive—”
“Thanks. I know . . .”
Dozens of cars had parked roadside. Hugh pulled up behind a Lexus with a license plate frame reading Japanese Consulate.
As Hugh exited his car, a hearse drove up, braked, and then slowly backed into the space behind Hugh. The hearse’s license plate frame read Nakamura Reality: Funerals for all Occasions. Hugh glanced up. The hearse’s driver, wearing sunglasses and a cap, nodded twice and then smiled pleasantly at Hugh.
Hanna and Hugh walked swiftly on the path leading into Oak Knoll, perhaps one hundred yards distant, where the mourners gathered. On the approach, they passed several smaller services, white placards identifying the loved one. On the second placard, written in large Gothic letters, was the name Juan Valdez. A black arrow pointed to the ceremony, already in progress. Among the handful of attendees, Hugh recognized Anna and Aaron. Anna turned her head, caught sight of Hugh, nodded solemnly and then, her arm discreetly at her side, spread her index and middle fingers to make the peace sign. Looking back toward the gravesite, she shook her head ever so slightly.
What pauper was going into that grave?
Hugh moved on.
Above an open grave, High Meadow’s most expensive casket swayed. None of the mourners looked familiar. Hugh feared he was at the wrong service until the crowd under pressure from the rear ranks reshaped itself, propelling forward Mr. Huddle, the bookstore proprietor, who met Hugh’s eyes and smiled sadly. Now Hugh saw others whom he recognized: Gina and her daughter, Lily; Kazuki’s confidant, Jack. Lily waved her hand at Hugh and mouthed boring. Hugh glanced at Hanna who clung to his side, the weight and solidity of her body comforting. Like tall grasses parting daintily at the passage of a snake, the mourners separated to permit the late arrival of a cassocked priest.
“I’m Father Maloney,” said the priest, edging his way to the coffin. “Please accept my apologies for being late, and when the collection plate for my speeding ticket is passed around, give freely.” The remark drawing no laughs, Father Maloney cleared his throat and raised his arms above his head. In his left hand, he held a Bible.
“Kazuki Ono was a latecomer to the Catholic Church, accepting its graces within the last beat of his heart, the last snap of synapse, the last metamorphosis of light into corneal impulse . . .”
A shadow fell upon the mourners. Hugh glanced up to see a raggedy cloud rushing north, so swiftly that blue sky returned before his eyes could turn away.
“. . . let us commend Kazuki Ono to the mercy of God . . .”
Tracing a circle in the blue, a solitary gull alternately dipped and climbed.
A motor droned.
“We therefore commit Kazuki Ono’s body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes . . . dust to dust . . . in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life.”
The hoist whined loudly at the heavy casket, as if complaining.
Above, the gull screeched in reply.
Hugh was hardly aware that the service had ended. The house lights had come up, the concert was finished. Mourners broke past Hugh, stripping their jackets, returning to their cars, talking of dinner.
Someone had taken his hand. “Should we go?” asked Hanna.
The gull squawked again.
Hugh slipped his hand from Hanna’s. “Would you wait here a moment?” he asked.
Hanna shrugged, lowered herself to the grass, smiled up at the bright blue sky.
As Hugh came in sight of H. Mcpherson’s grave, the ground sunk beneath him as if freshly shoveled.
At the gravesite, two tall young men with long black hair set bouquets of flowers on the grass beneath the stone.
“Sons?”
The two men turned. The one who had retained his bouquet let it fall, scattering the flowers.
“Dad?” asked Hitoshi—for though twelve years had passed, Hugh was certain which twin addressed him. Takumi stepped back, clutching the gravestone.
“Are you a ghost?” asked Hitoshi.
“It’s not possible,” said Takumi. “Where—”
Hitoshi moved toward Hugh then stopped and jerked his head back as if to take in his father’s scent. His eyes grew big, liquid. Hugh touched his son’s smooth bare throat, and Hitoshi’s hand slipped over his.
“You’re all right, then?” asked Hugh.
“How are you alive, Dad?”
The giving earth now seemed to drop out entirely. Hugh reached up, but there was no ledge to grasp. Without purchase, he sank. Oh, how fucking black and cold it was. He gazed up, saw only nothingness. He had not come out of the sea then. But what was that sound? A shadow? A lighter shade of black? The clap of a hand against water. Swimmers. Someone swimming over him. The swimmers drew closer: Hitoshi and Takumi. He heard their voices and felt their strong arms around him, pulling him to the surface.
Beneath Mcpherson’s headstone, Hugh lay. Above him were his sons. He trembled, fought back a trickle of bile, dug his fingers into the soft grass and laughed.
He watched his sons study him in disbelief. Finally, Hitoshi bent and touched him. Assuring himself of his father’s flesh, Hitoshi said, “Then—then our mother is coming back too, from—”
Takumi let out a breath. “—the dead?”
“Your mother?”
Hitoshi looked toward Takumi, who pushed away from the stone. Takumi stood tall and threw back his shoulders. “Our mother is gone.”
Above them, the circling gull squawked. Hugh rose to his knees, followed the
gull’s path.
“Gone Mama,” said Hitoshi.
“Dead? Setsuko’s dead?” asked Hugh.
Neither son said a word.
“But how?”
Takumi and Hitoshi exchanged glances. They would not tell him, for he would not believe it. But Hugh already knew and believed. Anyone or anything that tries to take what I love.
As his two sons lifted him to his feet, Hugh looked up toward the circling gull. But she too was gone.