Red Tea

by Meg Mezeske

  Once outside, she immediately wished she had left sooner. The intermittent rain had grown into a steady drizzle that obscured everything in a sheaf of gauzy grey. Even if she had remembered an umbrella, it would do little good during her bike ride home, and her light jacket would soak up the rain like paper.

  Jordan trotted to the covered bike lot, only to find her bicycle leaning against the rack at a crooked angle. She saw that both tires were completely flat, the caps gone from their valve stems. Her curse mingled with a high laugh over her shoulder. Jordan turned to see Emi and her friend Nanami—the girl Jordan had spoken to on the train weeks before, and many times since. The girls were perched on an empty bike rack under the neighboring veranda, waiting out the rain. Emi merrily splashed her toes in the growing puddles and swung her long legs, pale and bare up to the thigh despite the cold weather. She grinned and her teeth flashed in stark contrast against her bright lipstick.

  “What’s wrong—bike troubles?” Emi asked in a sing-song voice and stuck out her lip with an exaggerated pout. Nanami gave Jordan a helpless, apologetic look. Though it was completely unsurprising that Emi was behind the flattened tires, the predictability of her vileness did not temper it. Simmering fury welled up inside Jordan, as white-hot as when Emi had first put mud in Jordan’s shoe cubby, or when she had “accidentally” spilled food coloring on Jordan as they had passed in the hall, to name just a few occasions.

  With considerable effort, Jordan silently turned away and stepped out from beneath the shelter of the bike lot, hoping the effect was that she couldn’t deign to be bothered by Emi. She walked without hurrying her pace, though her hair and clothes became drenched within moments. Through the staticky shushing of the rain, shrill laughter burrowed into Jordan’s ears.

  She wished the storm would swallow up Emi.

  Five

  Emi Hirata was dead.

  Jordan’s mouth fell open in shock as Mrs. Okubo relayed the news. Before Jordan could formulate even a word of response, the short English teacher turned to leave the teachers’ room and spoke to Jordan over her shoulder.

  “I have to collect my homeroom students for the assembly. Please go to the gym with the other teachers, Jordan-sensei.”

  Mrs. Okubo left in a hurry, but the school seemed deceptively calm. There were no students milling in the halls and the teachers’ room was empty, quiet. Jordan could see the movement of pacing feet under Principal Kikuchi’s closed door, but she was otherwise alone. Though Mrs. Okubo had told her to go to the gym, Jordan was hesitant, still disoriented by her initial surprise.

  She grabbed her coat from her chair and shrugged it on as she entered the hallway. Jordan stayed on the upper floor, walked past the school library, and approached the enclosed walkway between the main building and the gym. Instantly, she felt the cold as she set foot in the walkway. There was a lacquer of frost on the shadowed trees below, their leaves unmoved by the still morning air. The gym was only a bit warmer, despite its loud furnace, which chugged and thrummed more impressively than it worked.

  Jordan descended the stairs to the main floor of the gym and joined the head teacher, Vice Principal Nakamura, the lunch lady, and a handful of other staff members at their posts along the sidelines of the basketball court. They gave perfunctory greetings, then resumed their silence. The gym also served as an auditorium and had an inset wooden stage along one side; a podium and microphone stood in its center.

  After a minute, the principal arrived and the students began to file in by grade level and class. Jordan watched Nanami and Emi’s other close friends as they entered, their eyes wet and red with tears. The girls’ classmates offered quiet condolences as they passed.

  When their students were situated, the teachers joined Jordan and the others at the sidelines one by one. Mr. Mori came to stand by Jordan, nodded down at her in greeting, and turned his attention to the students still trickling in.

  “Hello, Mori-sensei,” Jordan said, raising her voice to be heard over the swelling murmur of the students. She stood close enough to Mr. Mori that she had to crane her neck to see his face.

  “Jordan-sensei.” He spared her the slightest glance.

  “Do you know what’s going on?” Jordan wasn’t sure what made her ask Mr. Mori, with whom she seldom exchanged more than a few short words, despite being neighbors in the teachers’ room. Still, she was anxious and felt a disquieting curiosity boil up and spill over, with no one else nearby to direct it toward.

  “You don’t know?” He gave Jordan his full attention then, looking interested and disbelieving at the same time, eyes narrowing behind his square glasses.

  “Well, yes. I mean, I know that Emi has…died.” Jordan thought she had spoken just loud enough for only Mr. Mori to hear, but Ms. Tatsuya’s head swiveled in their direction. The woman blinked owlishly and craned her neck to listen as Jordan continued. “But how did she die?”

  “Another suicide,” Mr. Mori said plainly. His eyes flitted to hers. “Suffocation, or so I understand.”

  “Just like Yuki,” Jordan said to herself, but Mr. Mori replied.

  “That’s right.” He still wore an attentive expression and seemed on the verge of saying more, but a loud pop of static radiated from the stage and swept away all conversation. Principal Kikuchi stood at the podium, his face waxy and solemn. He leaned so close to the microphone that his drawn lips brushed its fine mesh. Then he cleared his throat, sparking a cascade of shrill feedback.

  “Kiritsu.” The students smartly straightened their ranks per the command; each held out their arms straight in front of their chests and shifted so that not a single fingertip brushed the student ahead in line. Nearly in unison, they dropped their arms to their sides, as uniform as soldiers.

  “Good morning, everyone.” Under the yellow stage lights, Principal Kikuchi’s bald head glistened sickly as he bowed forward.

  “Good morning, Kikuchi-kouchou,” the students and teachers replied, bowing, their words ringing hollow.

  “I’m sorry that my address to you today is brought on by such a tragic, sorrowful event.” He paused and his gaze shifted from face to face. “As your homeroom teachers have informed you, Emi Hirata passed on yesterday evening. As her friends, teachers, and classmates, we are all grieved by this sad news, and our condolences go to her family.”

  The principal stopped to pull a folded paper from his suit jacket pocket. Carefully, he laid the sheet against the podium and pressed out its creases. A student sniffled.

  “Life is a lamp-flame before a wind,” he said stiffly as he read from the paper. “Only two months ago, we also parted ways with Yuki Watanabe. Ogawa has suffered great losses—Ogawa High School especially. In light of yesterday’s events, all classes are dismissed. Please return home and spend today with your families.”

  Principal Kikuchi bowed and turned from the podium so abruptly that his paper fluttered to the stage, but he seemed neither to notice nor care as he hurried down the hollow steps. His face was tight—pinched with the strain of suppressing some emotion—and he made his way toward the exit instead of waiting for the students to file out, as was usual.

  The students were bewildered, both because of the principal’s uncustomary behavior and the shock of losing a fellow classmate, and they whispered among themselves. One of the teachers approached a group of students nearest the back and led them out the door.

  “Homeroom won’t be the same without her,” Mr. Mori said, to no one in particular.

  “Oh, I forgot she was one of yours, Mori-sensei. I’m so sorry!” Ms. Tatsuya said and straightened up a bit. Her breath wheezed wetly through her reddened nose. “Your students must be so upset.”

  “Yes. Emi was quite singular.” Mr. Mori’s lips drew into a subdued smile. Jordan was unsure whether he was expressing genuine fondness or attempting to be polite, considering Emi had been the proverbial thorn in every teacher’s side. “I believe your class is waiting, Tatsuya-sensei.”

  A crowd of second-graders looked e
xpectantly toward their math teacher. Ms. Tatsuya gave a small yelp and scurried to her students. A minute later, Mr. Mori stepped away to collect his own homeroom class without a word to Jordan. Steadily, the students emptied from the gymnasium. When only the lunch lady and the head teacher remained, Jordan left, collected her belongings from the teachers’ room, and biked home against the still-crisp morning air.

  Six

  Jordan stepped out of Mrs. Okubo’s car after it eased to a stop in front of Emi Hirata’s home. There were several vehicles wedged in the driveway and even more along the street. As Jordan waited for Mrs. Okubo, yet another car pulled up and deposited three women at the doorstep, all wearing somber black dresses.

  Jordan pulled at her own dress, which was tight across the thighs and fell shorter than she would have liked. It was borrowed, since she obviously hadn’t thought to bring mourning clothes with her overseas. She yanked down at the hem in one last fruitless attempt.

  “You look fine,” Mrs. Okubo said. Jordan couldn’t tell whether she was admonishing her for fidgeting or trying to put her at ease. She looked Jordan up and down once more and nodded. “It’s lucky you’re about the same size as my niece.”

  “Please thank her for me, for the dress.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble. You should meet her sometime,” Mrs. Okubo said as they walked toward the Hirata household, feet crunching on the gravel driveway that led to a manicured home surrounded by groomed trees. “Do you use Mixi? The social network? My niece is on it all the time. I could give you her username and…What’s wrong?”

  Jordan had stopped at the open door, too uncertain to step inside.

  “Are you sure it’s all right for me to be here?” she asked, though she suspected it was too late to turn back now. “Do all the teachers come? I didn’t know Emi very well.”

  “Many people will come to pay their respects, especially for a child.” Mrs. Okubo smiled in a motherly, reassuring way Jordan had never seen before. Not even with the students. “Don’t worry.”

  Jordan smiled for a moment too, despite her nervousness, and they let themselves in.

  At least a dozen pairs of dress shoes were already lined up in the entryway, black and shiny like beetles. Jordan and Mrs. Okubo slipped into flimsy indoor slippers and padded down a hallway decorated by watercolor paintings with fine script as tiny as ants.

  Just outside the threshold to the living room was a young man with an open ledger. Mrs. Okubo bowed as she handed him an envelope; then, she began to write her name in the book. Jordan let her gaze wander to the adjoining room, but she only caught glimpses of strangers sitting silently in rows of chairs.

  Jordan felt a nudge at her elbow, and Mrs. Okubo motioned to the ledger. Jordan wrote her name in blocky katakana letters under Mrs. Okubo’s cramped kanji and handed her own envelope to the young man, who took it without comment.

  The man made a note and placed Jordan’s offering in a box filled with identical envelopes, all tied with thread-thin black and white ribbons. They contained condolence money for Emi’s family.

  Hesitantly, Jordan followed Mrs. Okubo into the living room, just managing to swallow a gasp as she entered.

  Beneath the window stood a long altar bearing an open coffin. Emi Hirata was inside. Devoid of makeup and clothed in a snowy kimono suffused by sunlight, Emi looked oddly, strikingly beautiful. It seemed impossible that Emi had taken her own life just hours after Jordan had seen her in the rain, as bright-eyed and sharp-tongued as ever.

  Jordan’s throat tightened with guilt and she tamped down a sudden, intense urge to leave. Somehow, she forced herself to walk up behind Mrs. Okubo, who was in a line leading toward the altar.

  About a dozen mourners flanked Jordan, sitting stiffly in folding chairs, their gazes fixed toward the altar. At the head of the room sat a middle-aged woman with serene, even features that mirrored Emi’s. The woman, no doubt the mother, wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief but made no noise. Her husband squeezed her shoulders with one arm.

  Jordan was startled out of her quiet observations by a bell tinning through the room. The noise had come from the man in line before Mrs. Okubo. He placed the bell on a low table he knelt before. The man got to his feet, bowed toward the altar, and took a seat among the rows of chairs. Mrs. Okubo turned back and motioned for Jordan to join her.

  “Just do as I do,” she said in a low voice. Mrs. Okubo knelt in front of the black-lacquered table that squatted low to the ground, leaving enough room for Jordan to sit alongside her. Jordan’s dress pulled uncomfortably as she folded her legs beneath her thighs, and she could feel her feet begin to tingle under the weight of her body.

  Like a child, she mimicked Mrs. Okubo’s every movement, bowing and pressing her palms together. After ringing the altar bell, Mrs. Okubo pinched a dab of incense from a dish, brought it close to her forehead, and then placed it in a smoking urn. Jordan did likewise. Her nostrils flooded with the incense’s musky, perfumed fragrance as she brought it toward her face.

  Repositioning her hands, Mrs. Okubo began to recite what sounded like a prayer, so quietly that Jordan could only make out every other word. She soon gave up on any notion of repeating the sutra and simply knelt in silence with her eyes closed. A minute later, Mrs. Okubo stopped her recitation. She got to her feet and nodded to Jordan, who gratefully followed her to sit among the others.

  She wasn’t sure how long they would stay to pay their respects but noticed that only a couple of people had left since their arrival. Already feeling uneasy and impatient to leave, Jordan balled her hands together to keep from fidgeting and surveyed the room. The air was thick with the smell of incense. Lazy wafts of its pungent smoke clouded the columns of sunlight from the windows.

  In the gauzy shafts of light and undulating smoke, Emi looked ethereal, as though it were her spirit at the altar and not her body. Despite their brief and antagonistic relationship, Jordan felt a swell of sorrow press against her chest and she had to look away.

  Jordan’s memory of helping her mother choose a suit for Aiden to be buried in crept through her thoughts. She clamped her eyes shut to block it out, like shuttering a window against a storm.

  At the sound of voices, Jordan opened her eyes again and saw a woman she recognized as Ogawa High School’s nurse, Mrs. Takahashi, talking to the mother and father. The nurse clasped the other woman against her in a brief embrace—Emi’s mother only pressed one hand against Mrs. Takahashi’s back in the barest of hugs—before bowing and making her way out of the room. The school nurse pulled a tissue from her handbag to dab at a stray tear. She gave no sign of noticing Jordan.

  As Jordan watched her go, another mourner across the aisle caught her eye. The man was young, no more than thirty or so. His delicately handsome features were schooled into a calm but alert expression. He adjusted his glasses as he wrote in a small notebook cradled between his long fingers.

  Even though his suit was similar to the other men’s, Jordan could tell it was expensive, tailored to accent his tall, lean frame with its crisp material. His dark hair was worn just long enough to look casually tousled. This seemed to be the popular style among young, fashionable men she had seen in Yamagata City.

  “Jordan-sensei? Let’s go now.”

  Jordan jumped at Mrs. Okubo’s voice so close to her ear and felt her face flush. She chided herself for gawking at a man while attending a wake, but she was relieved to see that no one seemed to have noticed. Jordan nodded to the other woman, still feeling embarrassed, and followed her out of the room.

  As they left, Jordan spared a glance over her shoulder. She saw the well-dressed man turn away, as though he had been looking in her direction, and scribble in his notebook.

  Seven

  Jordan ached for a cup of coffee. Between the train fare to Yamagata City, the cab ride to a French cafe at its outskirts, and the return trip, it would probably be the most inconvenient, expensive coffee she would ever drink. But the autumn winds were chilling, her apartment had no cent
ral heating, and the instant coffee crystals from the local grocery store tasted more like dirt than coffee beans.

  Jordan envisioned a cup of coffee made caramel-tan by cream, sweetened with a lump of unrefined sugar. She smiled in anticipation as she boarded the train at Ogawa Station and filled the black space behind her closed eyes with images of the warm cafe.

  Soon after Jordan took a seat, Nanami—Emi’s friend—entered behind her. As was customary now that they had grown to know each other, the young woman sat beside her and they exchanged greetings.

  “I haven’t seen you since Emi…” Jordan trailed off and softened her voice. “Nanami, I am so sorry for your loss. I know how much your friend meant to you.”

  “Thank you, Jordan-sensei.” Nanami dropped her gaze to her lap, her shoulder-length hair obscuring her expression. A long moment passed in silence.

  “Are you doing all right? Do you want to talk about anything?” As she spoke, Jordan couldn’t help but be reminded of Akira and his own grief. She hoped she could find the right approach to reach Nanami, too. Though, she regretted the need to have to console so many students in the first place. Nanami remained silent.

  Jordan swallowed thickly and wondered if she was going about it all wrong, but finally, Nanami mumbled something in response. So quietly that Jordan couldn’t hear, even though their shoulders were brushing. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “Emi didn’t kill herself.” Her words were low but urgent. Nanami turned toward Jordan and her hair whipped like a dark sail in a turbulent wind. The girl’s eyes stuttered back and forth, intently searching Jordan’s face. She wore an odd expression of defiance tinged with hopefulness. Jordan felt a pang of sympathy and recalled Shun’s similar denial of his brother’s passing. She doubted either student had experienced the loss of a loved one before, both desperate to explain away what they couldn’t comprehend.