by Ann Beattie
“What do you think made her float the bourbon bottle?” I say.
No answer. I turn onto one hip and consider my future. Except for my students, I am out of touch with almost everybody. My best friend, Cora Kelley, moved with her husband to Ann Arbor. I hardly know Darren Luftquist or his wife, and none of the other teachers seems very interested in being friendly. Even my parents have faded away, because I see them so infrequently, and when I do see them, Carl and Jason are the Subject Not to Be Discussed—my mother does not approve of women and men cohabiting and thinks this would present a bad example to my little sister. With the exception of my mother’s unwillingness to discuss the love of my life, my parents, like most Canadians, are relentlessly neutral about almost everything. According to them, my sister and older brothers are all prospering, the boys happily married, everyone hormonally well balanced. And maybe they are: I had enough of them when we were growing up in the same house.
“I admire Moriko for what she did,” I suddenly hear myself say.
He snorts. I knew he wasn’t asleep.
“You know what I mean. The Japanese don’t value girls very highly. Moriko was expressing her discontent.”
“Go to sleep,” he says.
“Estelle doesn’t have a very clear sense of self-worth,” I say. “That probably got communicated to you, and it gave you the message that women aren’t very forceful. Think about it. She thought Nonette’s son was going to cause her trouble, and instead of calling the police or something, she checked into a Holiday Inn. That’s what a Canadian would do, for chrissake. And feel guilty that maybe somebody else needed the room.”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
“I haven’t. I’m just saying that I don’t understand my countrymen.”
“I can’t believe this is who I’m lying in bed with,” Carl says.
“Well, you are. You advertised for it, and here it is.”
“ ‘Wanted: Woman who does not understand her own kind. Maternal instincts unnecessary, but should be expansive in thinking about the virtues of pyromaniacs. Prolonged bedtime banter a plus.’ ”
“You actually have a very good sense of humor, Carl. Why didn’t you write your own ad and mention your sense of humor?”
I think long and hard about it. Carl does not. He falls asleep.
—
The following day, Moriko does not attend school. The other nine girls have heard what has happened. I know they know: they let their hair flop in their faces and draw close again. They regard me sullenly. I am the person responsible for their friend’s absence. What do they think? I can guess, all too easily. They assume I reported her to the police. They think, at the very least, that even if I might be a victim, I am still, as an adult, somehow capable of undoing the damage. They see me in a new light—see right through me, actually—and think I provoked her. They see what Moriko did as bold, and therefore very American. They see that now that someone has learned my lessons about necessary aggression and has taken action, the instigator has retreated into the shadows.
Tomoo Watanabe and his lawyer—a short, grimacing man in a Johnnie Cochran tie—and Darren Luftquist march grim-faced to my office at the end of the school day. I am more than willing to let bygones be bygones, but Mr. Watanabe will not have it. He speaks animatedly to the lawyer, in Japanese, moving in his seat like a warming jumping bean before I finish my sentences. I try to suggest that we forget what is surely a slight transgression and move forward. Unless that means inching toward me anxiously in his chair, he isn’t about to. Neither does he seem able to let go of the idea of Jason-the-Monster.
Mr. Watanabe speaks. The lawyer says: “Jason may make you fatigued. He stays up all night, dirties his room, throws his toys everywhere. You come to school tired. How can you direct students toward academic excellence if you are tired?”
“Frankly, that is not my only goal,” I say. “School is—”
“She is an excellent teacher!” Luftquist says huffily.
Mr. Watanabe speaks. The lawyer says: “This is his niece. His brother died in a tragic accident. An avalanche. He married the widow. Moriko is Takayo’s daughter with his deceased brother, and he does not think it would be correct to adopt her. Mr. Watanabe was never before married, and would not be married now except for extenuating circumstances.”
“That’s very sad,” Luftquist says, “but I don’t—”
Mr. Watanabe gives a jumping-bean jerk. He speaks to the lawyer.
“I must tell you about his position at Samaya, U.S.,” the lawyer says. “Mr. Watanabe is CEO of Samaya, U.S. The company currently employs over forty people. He must get a good night’s sleep, every night, to be excellent in his job. As a word from myself, personally, he is excellent in his job. I, too, work at Samaya, U.S.” The lawyer reaches in his jacket pocket and holds out a piece of paper: “Mr. Watanabe’s curriculum vitae.”
“We have no doubt Mr.—”
The lawyer: “Forgive me. Mr. Watanabe wished me to say, previously, as well, that Westerners may not understand the importance of sleep, because they think Japanese people work all the time. This is not so for Mr. Watanabe, who sleeps seven hours each night but who has also taken a cruise with his niece and his wife on the Q.E. Two.”
“Very bad voyage on the Q.E. Two. Money is to be refunded,” Mr. Watanabe says.
“What, really, is your point here, sir?” Luftquist says. Confused about who to converse with, he looks at the space between their heads.
Mr. Watanabe speaks. The lawyer turns to me. “Mr. Watanabe extends his good wishes for your ability to have a good night’s sleep. I must not continue to interject my own thoughts, or we will never finish. Mr. Watanabe wants to know if you consider Moriko to be of superior intelligence.”
“Superior?” Mr. Watanabe echoes, edgily.
“After approximately two and a half months in our school, there is no way that—”
“Excellent or not,” Luftquist says, “she saw fit to start a fire.”
“Let’s not get into that again,” I say.
Mr. Watanabe stands up suddenly. He speaks to the lawyer. The lawyer looks puzzled. Again, he holds out the curriculum vitae to Luftquist. Luftquist looks at me as if I am the one being unusually persistent. “Mr. Watanabe’s credentials are not in question. Ms. Woodruff—”
“Fire!” Mr. Watanabe says, so loud that he fools me, and I look around. His arm waves through the air. Then, frowning, he takes his curriculum vitae from the lawyer and looks it over.
Luftquist stands. Following his lead, so do I. The lawyer quickly gets to his feet. Mr. Watanabe says to me: “In Japan, this would be impossible. No fires in trash cans. No fires.”
Mr. Watanabe extends his hand. Luftquist shakes Mr. Watanabe’s hand. The lawyer faces first me, and bows, then Luftquist, to whom he bows more deeply. Luftquist bows back. Mr. Watanabe speaks to the lawyer.
The lawyer says: “Moriko will return to school. Mr. Watanabe understands that you wish the students to strive for academic excellence. In Japan, though, Moriko would not set a fire in a trash can.” The translator adds, sotto voce: “He feels.”
“I am happy this has been clarified,” Luftquist says. “Gentlemen, good day.”
“Goodbye,” the translator says, bowing slightly. Mr. Watanabe walks ahead of the translator. The janitor, polishing the floors, makes way. He is wearing jade-green pants with a sleeveless T-shirt tucked inside and a cap with BOBBY BROWN ATLANTA 1993 written across the front. DO WE DANCE? is written on the back.
“What do you suppose all that was about?” Luftquist whispers.
“He was implying that I am deficient as a teacher and as a parent.”
“You have to be kidding,” Luftquist says. “That’s what you think that was about?”
“Well, what did you think?”
“I’m sure I did not understand, did not care to persevere, and do not really sympathize with the conversational modes of the Japanese.”
“What do you think his d
eepest thoughts are?” I say as we pass the janitor.
“The building maintenance person? His wife and my wife are volunteers at Forward, the women’s shelter,” Luftquist says, as if he has answered the question. There is a long silence, but it feels chummier than my previous long silences with Luftquist. I am headed for my car. I don’t know where Luftquist is headed. “If I may say,” Luftquist says. “If I may, what I want to say is that, number one, I hope I was supportive of you, because I was trying to communicate that you are a valued member of our staff, and that whatever happened with that silly girl, that niece, or whatever she is, we all do value you here, and we don’t—we don’t think you have it easy. Who has it easy, of course? But you shouldn’t think that I haven’t taken notice of the way you have worked with the Japanese girls. I hope you don’t think that your efforts go unappreciated. In spite of the fact that one of them started that fire at your house, I mean.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
We walk awhile, and near the front door to the school he says: “God knows, it’s a relief to say something to you and to be understood, instead of trying to express my thoughts to Mr. Watanabe and that lawyer.”
“Did you think you would be a principal?” I say.
“No. I planned to be a biologist,” Luftquist says.
“You knew that Carl and I met through the personals listing, right?”
He stops. “How might I know that?”
“The party at your house before the start of school. Carl told me he told you.”
“Perhaps he told Doris,” Luftquist says. “At any rate: superior job you’ve been doing, very commendable you’ve extended yourself as you have to the Japanese girls, glad the rotation worked out so successfully.”
“He didn’t tell you that? He really didn’t tell you?”
“If you think that I think life makes any more sense than you do, you’re wrong,” Luftquist says.
“Thank you,” I say again.
“Welcome,” he says, reaching around me to push open the door.
—
“Carl,” I say.
XXXXX
“Come on. Listen to me.”
XX
“Carl, I have something to say.”
“What?”
“I think we’ve unfairly pigeonholed Luftquist.”
“Bake him some Christmas cookies,” Carl says sleepily.
“You always say something sarcastic. You thought Moriko should be a flower girl at our wedding. You think I should bake cookies for Luftquist. All right, I’m a little stressed out lately. But the thing is, I’m rethinking things. The fire in the trash has made me look at things in a different way. It seems to me that Luftquist finds his job difficult. He intended to be a biologist.”
“That lunkhead?”
“Carl, be serious. I’m beginning to think that we all drift into things.”
“Like snow,” he says.
“Not like snow. That we drift sort of unnaturally.”
“Okay,” he says, turning on his light.
“My finding you was just chance. My becoming a teacher because of some scores I got on an aptitude test, and because of the coincidence of my moving in with you, and then hearing at some stupid party about the opening at Benjamin Franklin.”
“Are you saying I’m just some random guy?” Carl says.
“What would make you think that? I feel closer to you than I’ve felt to anyone, ever. But the thing is, I have a confession to make: I told them certain stories. I made my life…I made it the opposite of glamorous. I sort of sacrificed Jason, actually. I used to joke about how wild he was, and how disorderly, and Moriko somehow didn’t quite get the drift of it. She sort of got fascinated by Jason. She tried to get me to bring him to school. She’s a very imaginative girl, and she got very excited about meeting him. Then when I wouldn’t come through, she got desperate.”
Carl doubles up the pillow behind his head. He looks at me blankly and turns off his light, so we are in the dark again.
?
X
??
“All right,” he says. “What exactly happened with you and Moriko? Just cut to the chase. Why, exactly, did she set a fire in our trash can?”
“God, Carl, there aren’t exact, one hundred percent verifiable reasons for these things.”
He grunts.
“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Moriko probably feels persecuted, and I was being cute and insinuating that I did, too, by my son—they assume he’s my son—I acted like maybe what he did was upsetting, like when he stole the bike and crashed into a tree, because actually it was upsetting to me. The thing is, she’s just a kid, and I guess I thought I was being funny, you know, wry, and she thought I was really complaining, and I guess I was, but there wasn’t anything I expected her to do, because, I mean, she doesn’t know anything about our country, even, she just got here in August, so she probably misunderstood…she’s literal minded, and she thought I had a problem, and she got very interested in my problem, and she wanted to see it, so to speak. She wanted to meet Jason, and of course I’m not going to trot him out to be observed, I’m not going to put him on display like Dr. Hannibal Lecter…you aren’t asleep, are you?”
“I keep feeling like she’s prowling around out there,” Carl says.
“Well, she isn’t.”
“I rely on you to see things clearly,” Carl says.
“You just want to end the discussion.” I sit up in bed. “Carl,” I say, “do you think I’m an awful person?”
“No,” Carl says. He is silent again, but then he surprises me by sitting up and turning on the light on his side of the bed. In a split second, in the too-bright room, I see our clothes strewn on the floor, the broken slat of the venetian blind, the rug pad protruding from one end of the rug—all the usual chaos of daily life. It’s not only Jason, and his tossed toys and ticktacktoe of shoes gradually filling the house; it’s the sprawl created by the adults’ holding pattern of possessions, things owned by people overgifted and overly acquisitive, who’ve forgotten to discard the old as they’ve brought in the new. The rattan chair, which would look much better on the porch we don’t have, sits in the far corner, draped with my brassiere and checkmated by Carl’s Jockey shorts. The bureau drawers are ajar. Dried flowers in a glass vase—why even pretend that real ones, untended, would last any time at all? My mother would be horrified. My mother believes in order and cleanliness, which she managed in spite of the fact that she had such a big family: everything in its place; order in the house bringing order to the soul. In this, as in so many things, I resisted her teachings. Estelle is also very orderly, but Carl is more like me. Maybe not quite as haphazard, but still hardly organized. Misplacing keys is one thing, but misplacing your tool belt is another. Our house is enough to make me yearn for the Zen-like simplicity of a single stone on a tabletop, one flower in a vase. Which brings me back to thinking about Moriko. It seems to me, tonight, that my playing Scheherazade with the students was such a Western way of relating. Such a selfish way of communicating with them: spinning tales to save myself even though I was never in any danger, just engaging in narcissistic fantasies, really, while poor Moriko tried to grasp their common threads in order to have something to hang on to.
The next day, though Mr. Watanabe said Moriko would be in school, she is not. Her friends regard me coolly. Thick, newly cut bangs flop forward onto Kyoko Iida’s forehead. I feel that I have done something bad. I intuit that Moriko’s day is not going well. I drop the chalk, drop the eraser. Before class is over, I trip on a bit of chalk and barely retain my balance. The Japanese girls bring their heads together for a moment of quiet bobbing, as if they are birds clustered at a tiny suet ball.
—
Jason brings home his friend’s ferret without asking us first if it’s okay to keep the ferret while his friend has his tonsils removed. It gets loose and runs through the house. Carl curses, and Jason echoes him
. “Fuck!” Jason screams. In case we didn’t hear: “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“I am not a good parent,” I say to Carl, through clenched teeth, when he comes into the kitchen and deliberately collides with me to stop me from bringing the telephone book down on the ferret’s head. (In my fury, I am convinced I can smoosh it the second it darts out from under the refrigerator.)
“No!” Jason wails.
“Honey—it really is only a ferret,” Carl says.
“Murderer!” Jason screams, as if the ferret’s bashed-in brains are a done deal.
“Let’s all take a long, deep breath,” Carl says, holding out his hand for the telephone book.
“Grand-Mam’s going to buy me an aquarium with baby barracudas!” Jason says, grabbing the pile of paper napkins on the table and throwing them up in the air. “I can live with Grand-Maaaaaaaaaaam!” Then he’s gone, out the back door, slamming it behind him.