Once Removed

by Mako Yoshikawa

  Then he took off his shoes, bulky hiking boots with shards of ice still clinging to them, glittering and dripping, from his walk to her apartment, and began to climb under the sheets with her.

  For some time, Claudia had known that there were at least a dozen very good reasons why she and Vikrum should not be in bed together. Much, much later, it would almost seem funny to her that, faced with the imminent possibility of this happening, she came up with the reason that she did.

  “You'll get sick,” she warned. Then, as if to drive her point home, she sneezed.

  Vikrum paused, his head cocked, considering. “I'll take the risk,” he said, and handed her a tissue that she promptly used and discarded among the others on the floor.

  She lifted her head up, and he slipped his arm under it in a manner that was reassuring to her in that it seemed brotherly rather than sexual. She laid her arm on his stomach and familiarized herself with the contours of his ribs and soft belly.

  She would come to think it was her fever that had been responsible for her calm acceptance of this married man in her bed. Search as she might, though, she would never be able to come up with a satisfying explanation for her heartless indifference to the possibility that Doug might walk in at any moment and the docile way in which she opened her mouth to take in the spoonfuls of chicken soup (which she, a vegetarian, had not tasted in five years) and the sour orange juice.

  HAVING SEX WITH VIKRUM (Claudia announces to me now—it's a proclamation, lacking only the blare of trumpets and the waving of flags) was a revelation. From the very first time. She had never understood what real desire was before him. She'd read about it, seen it acted out in movies and television, and discussed it with me and others. Heck, she herself had told countless lovers over the years that she desired them, not realizing that what she'd felt was only a pale shadow version of all that lust could be. It was as if she'd only seen those paintings of ice cream, made by that guy who's famous for it, what's-his-name—

  Wayne Thiebaud?

  She nods. Being with Vikrum (she continues, without stopping for a breath) was as if she had only seen Thiebaud's paintings and not known how creamy and cold and sweetly delicious ice cream actually is in the mouth.

  But (I say, breaking into her reverie in an attempt to steer her back to the matter at hand) that first time—that wasn't on that afternoon, right?

  No. They didn't even kiss that day (she says, shaking her head at their foolishness), choosing to wait instead until they were in a hallway of the Boston aquarium, surrounded by what seemed to be hundreds of screaming children. They would never be so reckless again (“although,” she says, suddenly and briefly frowning, “it's the damnedest thing—just lately, I feel as if he's been getting reckless again, and I don't know what to do about it”), but that day they would stay in that hallway for an hour or more, until Claudia finally pulled away, tucked her hair behind her ears, and silently took Vikrum by the hand to lead him back to her home.

  She's getting ahead of her story again. I am about to give her another gentle nudge when she nods at me, signaling that she's ready to return on her own.

  Yet before she continues with the chronological unfolding of her tale, there's one more fact about her first taste of real ice cream that she needs to recount. It's a minor point, a detail that, I imagine, has been fretting away at her, a small but persistent pain like a sharp pebble in her shoe.

  “That first time I took Vikrum home—I had to make sure to put the chain lock on the door,” she says. It's wrenching to watch her attempt to smile. “For Doug, just in case.”

  CLAUDIA FELT HER FACE BURN, as if with fever once again.

  Eighteen days had passed since that afternoon she had spent in bed with Vikrum. Fully dressed, her hair washed and combed, she stood with him now in the aquarium, which he had suggested as the site for their first encounter in almost three weeks. She was, finally, more or less fully recovered from the flu, a hacking cough and a certain rather sultry throatiness in her voice the only vestiges thereof, but she was far from over the memory of the day she last saw Vikrum. While Claudia loved the aquarium (“and the whale watches,” she says, clutching my arm, “we need to go on one of those together, you and me”), her mortification at seeing Vikrum again was enough to diminish even her pleasure in the penguins, who dived into the water and chased each other with what seemed very close to pure joy, and the large, conical tank, where the sharks and the sea turtles swam peaceably side by side.

  That there were sea horses and conch shells to gaze at now was a relief, since she had trouble looking at any spot within six inches of Vikrum's eyes. Hard as she tried, though, it was difficult to avoid his gaze: he seemed to be far more interested in her than in the flashes of neon darting through the tank in front of them, enchanting though they were. Still, why shouldn't he want to look her in the eye? His conscience wasn't troubling him (she thought to herself bitterly). If she had acted out of unimpeachable motives, as he had done—and if his eyes were not so large and wonderfully clear; could they possibly be the largest and clearest that she had ever seen?—then she'd be eager, or at the very least able, to look up and meet his gaze too.

  When Vikrum had climbed into bed with her, he had been guided only by a parent's instinct to take care of those unable to fend for themselves—the same innocent impulse that had led him to swipe drops of juice off her chin. As for the instincts that had guided her—well, suffice it to say that innocent was not a word that could be applied to them. Neither, for that matter, was credible. Had she really slipped her hand beneath his shirt and slid it up and down the smooth skin of his stomach? Was it true that she had rubbed her cheek against his chest and listened to the slow pulse of his heart; had she actually tried to see if she could speed up that beat by running her tongue down his torso?

  Given the incredible nature of her behavior, it was perfectly understandable that she hadn't been able to stop thinking about that afternoon—the muscles of his arm beneath her head; the heat of his body, which seemed, fever or no, easily equal to that of hers; and the way he had shuddered, his skin rippling and coming up in goose bumps, when her tongue first touched his chest—for the past eighteen days. It was only to be expected that she and Doug would have fought, with him accusing her of being strangely distracted (“I know you're sick, C, but there's something else wrong, I know that too”). Of course her face was burning now.

  Vikrum had lain in bed with her for half an hour and then, after depositing a benevolent, perhaps forgiving kiss on her forehead, he had sat up, pulled his hiking boots back on, and left, all without saying a word. Considering what she had done, small wonder he had been so quiet. If the steady rhythm of his pulse had picked up its pace when she licked his chest, as she had maybe wishfully thought, it was doubtlessly out of embarrassment.

  Embarrassment for her, seasoned with a pinch of regret, perhaps, at witnessing a perfectly good friendship go to the dogs.

  “I'M GLAD YOU'RE BETTER. I've missed you,” he said, “a lot.”

  Claudia counted them in her head. Nine words. Added to the “Hi, Claudia, good to see you,” with which Vikrum had greeted her when she walked through the doors of the aquarium, and the meekly uttered “You too” with which Claudia had responded, that made a whopping seventeen words spoken in the forty-odd minutes that they had spent together so far that day.

  “Let's walk,” she said, turning abruptly. “This next tank is a good one.”

  Obediently he fell into step beside her.

  She cleared her throat. The rattle she made in the process was so deep and loud, the woman in front of them turned to stare and then hurried to gather her children close so that their mucous membranes would remain safe from the air exhaled by the tall red-faced lady.

  “Here,” Vikrum said, moving toward her. “You're still not all better; you've got to keep yourself warm.” He reached out and began to tie the scarf that was draped around her neck. “It's good to see you again,” he said softly. “I wanted to come by
your apartment again. I would have, but when you didn't return any of my calls . . . It feels like I've been waiting a long time to see you.”

  “Well,” said Claudia, with an attempt at tartness, “you know what they say: anticipation is all too often the best part.”

  He hesitated. “I don't believe that for a second,” he said, “and not just because I instinctively distrust whatever ‘they' say.” He knotted and cinched her scarf tight.

  A long pause. Finally she raised her head and looked at him. For the second time that afternoon, she thought that he had to have the clearest, most beautiful eyes she had ever seen. And for the first time, she realized—or, more accurately, admitted to herself; the knowledge arrived without a shock—that he wasn't just looking at her.

  What he was doing was gazing, with real hunger.

  She backed away a step, moving cautiously and watching him all the while.

  “You're married. With children,” she said at last.

  She would try to figure out later whether she had been expecting a denial or an excuse, or perhaps both. In any event, she didn't receive either. He stood absolutely still, his arms hanging by his sides and his eyes intent upon her. She couldn't be sure, but she thought he may even have stopped blinking.

  She imagined him coming home at the end of a long day, his children skimming across the driveway to greet him. Lifting his daughter with one arm and hoisting his son over his shoulder with the other, walking effortlessly toward the house, grumbling all the while about how heavy they were getting. They rummage through his pockets during the ride, looking for the odds and ends from the grocery store that he's picked up, knowing that later he'll clap his hand to his forehead and exclaim that he's forgotten to go, that he'll have to find what he needs somewhere else instead: a small carton of cream stashed behind his daughter's ear, a whole bag of carrots that the dog has been carrying around, and two lemons nestled like eggs in his son's woolen hat.

  “So stop looking at me like that,” Claudia finished weakly.

  Never less than the soul of politeness, nothing if not respectful, Vikrum immediately averted his eyes. “Sorry,” he said.

  As soon as he stopped looking at her, she felt something catch in her chest. She cleared her throat again, in the off chance that it was another cough rather than a sob.

  She thought of Doug, and the warm solid mass of his body.

  “These past three months,” Vikrum said, his face turned toward the wall, “with you . . .” Then he shook his head and stopped.

  She had never seen him so serious before. Intellectually engaged, sure, but he had always been essentially lighthearted in her company, boyish and playful, verging on giddy.

  Claudia moved forward a quarter of a step, perhaps two inches at the most.

  Taking a breath in, Vikrum began to speak again. In the deliberate pacing of his speech, she could hear how carefully he measured his words. “If you never want to see me again, I'll understand. These past three months,” and here he took another gulp of air in, “with you, I almost wish they hadn't happened. But if they hadn't, well”—defiantly he turned his head to look at her again—“think how much we would have missed.”

  Another two inches, and yet another pause.

  “You're married,” Claudia said again, the words an incantation, a spell designed not to protect her from the consequences of what she was about to do but rather to test whether she could be as clear-eyed as Vikrum himself was about what their future held. “With children that you're devoted to.” She spoke very softly, almost under her breath; in that echoing hallway filled with children and their parents, anyone farther away than Vikrum was—his face now just an inch away from hers, their noses all but touching—would not have been able to hear her.

  Vikrum remained quiet, seeming to know that she was speaking, this time, more to herself than to him. With the shadow of a smile hovering around his eyes, he waited, watching her, until she was ready, until she slowly propelled herself another fraction of an inch forward and touched her lips to his: a magician she might not be, but her incantation had worked.

  As they kissed, Claudia felt the room tilt again, and she wondered, but only for an instant, whether the profound sense of vertigo that she was feeling was love or the return of the hot flush of her illness and the delirium that it caused.

  “THAT'S A GOOD STORY,” I tell her. “Thank you. It wasn't disappointing at all.”

  “Really?” Claudia asks, shifting restlessly in her seat. The strain is more apparent than ever: her forehead's creased and her napkin has been methodically and neatly shredded into bits. “It seems so sordid to me.”

  “Bittersweet, maybe. Sordid, no. I just have one last question.”

  She looks so tired, I'm half tempted to back down. But then she nods. “Ready,” she says.

  “It's just the obvious one,” I say apologetically. “What about children? You've wanted kids for as long as I can remember.”

  “Yup, that's the obvious one,” she says. “Well, for starters, Doug wanted children; he wanted to get married and the whole shebang, but I resisted him, so maybe I don't want it quite so much. Two, I teach elementary school, after all. In a way, I've got twenty-four kids of my own already. And three,” she adds hastily, as if to preempt me, although I've made no move to interrupt and have no intention of doing so, “this might sound more pathetic yet, but I keep thinking about your mother's aunt Sachiko, and how she was so happy taking care of other people's children.”

  “But Sachiko-san couldn't get married,” I say, as gently as I can. “She had no choice. You do.”

  “I know,” she says. Her voice is quiet, her eyes clear. “But sometimes it feels as if I don't. Even like this, even though I see him only two, three times a week if I'm lucky, I'm happier now than I've ever been in my life. He fills me up; he's all I want and, I think and often fear, all I ever will want.”

  We fall silent, and remain so for the journey home, even though there should be plenty for me, at least, to say: while we've been chatting in the bakery for more than two hours, it's Claudia who did all the talking. Can she read in my silence how I'm feeling? It'd be ridiculous to hope that she can't. Still, it's possible that she's only picked up on part of it—a less than ringing endorsement of her relationship with Vikrum, based on the heartache that has to lie at the end of it. Which is to say, nothing that she doesn't already know.

  With any luck, Claudia won't be able to tell how at once maddened and relieved I am that she failed to follow through on how my mother figured in her story. Regardless of how close we are, and even if I have made the decision to make her my only family, there are some subjects that will always be difficult for us to discuss.

  As we near the river, it starts to rain again, hard enough that without prompting I open the umbrella she brought for me. The first day I arrived in Boston, unbearably early on a September morning, the Charles was like a mirror, clear and still, reflecting in minute detail the lone sculler rowing on it. I thought the town prosaic then, stodgy and overly quaint and dull, its people monochromatic and bland. It's not until today, when the river is windswept and choppy, deprived of any power to reflect by the splattering of the rain, that I can finally see what my mother saw in this poor excuse for a city: the way that it whispered promises of romance and adventure, of a new life and love. If it weren't for the rain, maybe I could hear them as well—promises so sweet and seductive, it's no wonder she fell for them, and that Claudia did too.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hana

  California, 1999

  HANA, AT THE AGE OF SIXTY-SIX, HAS COME TO ACCEPT IT: THE English language has beaten her. She uses both hands to hold on to the receiver, but the receiver shakes anyway. Her hands haven't been steady for some time; these months of stress have taken their toll. The operator, a woman with a voice almost as deep as a man's, is businesslike but patient while Hana stumbles over her request. It is as Hana waits for her to locate the number for Claudia Klein that she realizes that wha
t she is most nervous about, at this very moment, is her English. This comes as a surprise. Compiling a list of all that she's nervous about right now would take up an impressive amount of time, far more than she actually has. Then there's the fact that for some months, maybe even a year, the number-one spot on that list has been occupied solidly by her younger daughter.

  And, finally, language has been a source of concern for her for so long, you would think she'd be over worrying about it.

  Hana has tried, but she can't remember at what point she gave up on words. The day that she realized she couldn't even follow the playful chatter of her own small children, maybe. Or one evening when she'd been overtaken by a moment of recklessness and had spoken up, attempting to deliver a pun, no less, at one of Henry's faculty parties. “I think Carter is peanuts to talk about rust in his heart.”

  Had she really said that; what had she been thinking? She had, word for word, and she knows all too well what had gotten into her that evening—a sudden burst of annoyance, mixed in with a good measure of boredom, at her perpetual silence. If only she could fool herself into believing that time had distorted her memory, magnifying the extent of her humiliation! Everyone in the group she'd been standing in had turned to look at her, a moment of heavy quiet followed by a flurry of talk about something else altogether. She isn't sure, to this day, whether her comment was dropped because of general shock that she, so subdued that the functioning power of her vocal cords was cast in doubt, had finally uttered a sound or because of the far more likely possibility that the sentence she'd blurted out had made no sense to them, both in the context of the preceding conversation and in and of itself.

  Henry, who had been standing nearby, to all appearances absorbed in a one-on-one with the chair of his department, saw and heard yet did not flinch. In a few moments, he was standing beside her, his hand light on the small of her back but conveying to her with such clarity that its touch itself was proof of the insignificance, the complete and utter irrelevance, of words in her life: Never mind, it's okay, I'm here.