sound of a door opening and closing. I waited for the flush of water through the bathroom pipes but it didn’t come. I rushed up to my room and found Stum there, standing stupidly at the foot of the bed where Sachi continued to sleep.
“Get out of here,” I hissed. When I tried to grab his arm, he slipped away easily.
“I wanted to see, that’s all,” he said. He stood there dumb in my room of faded florals. I glared at him until he came out to the hall.
“I wasn’t going to do anything,” he whispered, suddenly sad-eyed.
I made him come down with me to the kitchen, where he padded back and forth glumly, picking at bits of raw food I was preparing. I tapped his hand. “We won’t have enough.”
“She staying?”
I shrugged. Stum paced around again. He picked up a chopstick, started tapping surfaces here and there, lightly at first, then louder, on pots and pans. That was the engine in him revving, all the energy kept back, coiled in his fingers hour after hour, making his movements tiny as those chicks.
He wheeled around to face me: “She’s sick because she knows her boyfriend’s dead.”
This was his revenge, I knew, for me calling him stupid, for me wishing he was Eiji. He was torturing me with that. Wanting to spoil what he could for me, whatever way.
“The kamikaze did it.” He banged the chopstick one last time on my big pot, then dropped it to the floor.
“You’ll wake up Papa,” I said evenly, “and her.” I wasn’t going to get upset the way I had the night before. What happened to the calm I’d known before all this? My nights where I stared out at the electrical field and my giants, and the asphalt of the concession road paved smooth and dark? This childishness. I no longer dreaded him leaving us, leaving me. Not one bit. Not one bit.
“What was that?” Stum was looking at me, waiting.
“Nothing.”
“I saw you,” and he fiddled his fingers over his lips. This was how I’d given myself away ever since I was a girl: talking to myself, trying to keep my secrets; it wasn’t old age. “What did you say?” His voice was rising, waiting.
I merely shook my head, got on with the vegetables, the meat, going from here to there, not looking back.
“Did you talk to your pictures today, ne-san?” He said it with a cruel smirk.
I ignored him; I began to hum. I concentrated on my hands swishing in and out of the water, then draining the rice. The way Mama had taught me years ago, without losing a single grain. Washing it because, Mama said, of all the dirty hands that touched these millions of grains, the hands of men and women who dropped their sweat, their grime, even their nose pickings into the bags. I remembered that and saw a dozen filthy, swarthy hands reaching into my water.Suddenly my water was dark. I looked up to find Stum close to me. I pushed him back, picked up the chopstick from the floor, from beside his broad feet that stretched every pair of shoes until they ripped at the seams. I stayed silent.
“Ne-san, do they answer you back?” he jeered. “Your pictures?” It was easy for me to ignore the fool, the baka-tare-bozu. I almost called him that aloud, the very thing he said he would never again be to me, but I stopped myself, remembering the bitterness of our feud the night before; I caged my lips with my fingers.
“Get out,” I said, pointing to the back door. He slunk out, unhurried.
He did not upset me so much. For they did answer me back sometimes, my pictures. In their way. In fact, his jeers made me remember that I did not have a photograph of Chisako; only the picture from the newspaper, where the other Chisako, the plain one, stared out of the grainy, smudged print like a homely stranger. Not the one I had known, who had shared some of her secrets with me.
When I finished washing the rice, the water ran clear. If I could simply be like this, I thought, dipping my hand once more into the cool liquid, touching the polished grains: stripped clean;
“Get out of here,” I hissed. When I tried to grab his arm, he slipped away easily.
“I wanted to see, that’s all,” he said. He stood there dumb in my room of faded florals. I glared at him until he came out to the hall.
“I wasn’t going to do anything,” he whispered, suddenly sad-eyed.
I made him come down with me to the kitchen, where he padded back and forth glumly, picking at bits of raw food I was preparing. I tapped his hand. “We won’t have enough.”
“She staying?”
I shrugged. Stum paced around again. He picked up a chopstick, started tapping surfaces here and there, lightly at first, then louder, on pots and pans. That was the engine in him revving, all the energy kept back, coiled in his fingers hour after hour, making his movements tiny as those chicks.
He wheeled around to face me: “She’s sick because she knows her boyfriend’s dead.”
This was his revenge, I knew, for me calling him stupid, for me wishing he was Eiji. He was torturing me with that. Wanting to spoil what he could for me, whatever way.
“The kamikaze did it.” He banged the chopstick one last time on my big pot, then dropped it to the floor.
“You’ll wake up Papa,” I said evenly, “and her.” I wasn’t going to get upset the way I had the night before. What happened to the calm I’d known before all this? My nights where I stared out at the electrical field and my giants, and the asphalt of the concession road paved smooth and dark? This childishness. I no longer dreaded him leaving us, leaving me. Not one bit. Not one bit.
“What was that?” Stum was looking at me, waiting.
“Nothing.”
“I saw you,” and he fiddled his fingers over his lips. This was how I’d given myself away ever since I was a girl: talking to myself, trying to keep my secrets; it wasn’t old age. “What did you say?” His voice was rising, waiting.
I merely shook my head, got on with the vegetables, the meat, going from here to there, not looking back.
“Did you talk to your pictures today, ne-san?” He said it with a cruel smirk.
I ignored him; I began to hum. I concentrated on my hands swishing in and out of the water, then draining the rice. The way Mama had taught me years ago, without losing a single grain. Washing it because, Mama said, of all the dirty hands that touched these millions of grains, the hands of men and women who dropped their sweat, their grime, even their nose pickings into the bags. I remembered that and saw a dozen filthy, swarthy hands reaching into my water.Suddenly my water was dark. I looked up to find Stum close to me. I pushed him back, picked up the chopstick from the floor, from beside his broad feet that stretched every pair of shoes until they ripped at the seams. I stayed silent.
“Ne-san, do they answer you back?” he jeered. “Your pictures?” It was easy for me to ignore the fool, the baka-tare-bozu. I almost called him that aloud, the very thing he said he would never again be to me, but I stopped myself, remembering the bitterness of our feud the night before; I caged my lips with my fingers.
“Get out,” I said, pointing to the back door. He slunk out, unhurried.
He did not upset me so much. For they did answer me back sometimes, my pictures. In their way. In fact, his jeers made me remember that I did not have a photograph of Chisako; only the picture from the newspaper, where the other Chisako, the plain one, stared out of the grainy, smudged print like a homely stranger. Not the one I had known, who had shared some of her secrets with me.
When I finished washing the rice, the water ran clear. If I could simply be like this, I thought, dipping my hand once more into the cool liquid, touching the polished grains: stripped clean;
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