Butterfly's Child (37 page)

Benji stared at her, gripping the edge of the table. “How do you know about her?”

She smiled. “Was your name at one time Benjamin Pinkerton?”

“Who are you? Did you know Cio-Cio-san?”

“I believe I have some information that will interest you.”

“Please sit down.” He gestured toward a low table at one corner of the room. His hands were shaking. “I'll bring tea.”

“I would prefer to come to your house. Would that be acceptable? Shall we say two o'clock this afternoon?”

“Yes—please. Let me draw you a map.” He fumbled among his papers for a pencil.

“Never mind,” she said. “I know where you live.”

He closed the shop and sprinted up the hill to tell Rinn. “Finally we will learn something about my mother,” he said.

She embraced him. “It's wonderful—and mysterious,
ne
?”

Together they readied the house for the visitor. Rinn set out refreshments: their most flavorful tea, squares of chestnut yokan paste, and some bean cakes; he put his finest Seto vase on the tokonoma shelf. They agreed that Rinn and Mrs. Fukuda would take Shoichi next door so that there would be no distractions during the conversation.

After they left, Benji straightened the shoes in the vestibule and set out a pair of guest slippers on the top step. He left the door open and sat at the table, going over some business papers to calm himself. He wished now that Rinn had stayed to ease the conversation.

The woman arrived promptly at two. “I hope you don't mind that I've brought a companion,” she said. Another woman, wearing a bone-colored kimono, stood behind her, looking around the garden. The sunlight through her yellow parasol printed with red plum blossoms cast reddish streaks on the side of her face.

“Of course not,” he said, setting out another pair of slippers. “Please come in.” The second woman kept her head bowed when she entered.

They sat at the table while he prepared the tea—awkward with everything, the kettle, the cups. Again, he wished for Rinn.

He carried the tray of refreshments to the table, sat down, and poured the tea. The woman in kimono had not raised her head; he wondered if she had some affliction.

“I'm eager to hear your information,” he said.

The other woman looked up at him. His heart skipped. Wide-spaced eyes, full lips.

“Are you … my aunt?”

“I am your mother.” She gave a deep bow.

He laughed; the tea spilled from his cup. He set it down, his hand shaking. “That's impossible. My mother is dead.”

“Perhaps she only seemed to be.” She gazed straight into his eyes, that gentle, intent expression. He held his breath.

“My mother … committed suicide—I saw it.”

She rose and came to kneel beside him, her forehead touching the tatami, her arms and hands outstretched before her. “A geisha must learn to perform. Please try to forgive me, dear son.”

He looked wildly around the room; the other woman had disappeared. This was a trick. They must have heard he had money.

“I'm not wealthy,” he said.

She sat up.
“Sumimasen
. I am stricken in my heart to have caused you grief and shock. And it is a shock to my being to find that you are here. Even with your black hair and man's face, I can recognize you.”

“My mother is dead,” he shouted.

“Benji-san, do you remember our little game at bedtime that helped you fall asleep? The one who kept the eyes closed for the longest time was the victor. And sometimes I soothed you with a song as well.” She began to sing: “
Sakura, sakura, ima saki—ho-ko-ru …
” He stared at her; she held her head slightly to one side, as he remembered.

“But I saw you …”

“The apparent tragedy was staged for your benefit.”

“My benefit?” He jumped up and backed away from her. “I've spent my entire life … How could you be so cruel?”

“Dear child, had you remained in Nagasaki, you would have been taken from me, and I feared that you would …” She took a handkerchief from her kimono sleeve and wiped away tears. “It was a cruel choice for me, but I could not bear to think … I thought how I might flee and take you, but it was hopeless.” She looked up at him. “Some girls born to geisha are taken into the okiya, and some others, girls or boys, may be adopted, although—please forgive me for saying so—with your yellow hair … I knew that in America you would be well cared for.”

“Whipped by my father, plowing for hours, digging up stumps, being called Jap—would you call that good care?”

She covered her face with her hands. “Forgive me. I am deeply sorry.”

He paced the room, back and forth to the window, everything a blur. “You could have let me know. If you cared anything about me, you'd have let me know. My whole life—”

“Dear son.” She stood beside him, touched his arm; he jerked away. “Every day I have prayed to Inari-san for you, and always I tried to imagine your life. I thought you would forget me—children forget. I hoped this would be the case. When I learned that you were searching for information about me, and saw the monument you have erected, I was very surprised and moved.”

“If you wanted me to forget,” he said, “why did you leave me that picture?”

“It was Suzuki who put it in your kimono. She told me so only very recently, when she contacted me about the monument in my honor. I had thought it best that you erase your image of your first mother.”

“All that time, I tried to imagine you in heaven, thinking of me.”

“I was truly thinking of you,” she said. “But on this earth.”

“How did you do it? That blood …”

She looked away. “The blood of a cat.”

“My cat? Rice Ball?”

“Please understand that I was desperate at the time. As it happened, your father came suddenly—”

“You killed Rice Ball! Have you no—”

“Dear son—”

“How dare you call me son?” He pushed at the table, teapot and cups clattering to the floor, and began to sob. His whole life had been wrong. By the time Rinn returned, calling out, “What's happened?” his mother was gone.

Keast and Lena
had taken what used to be Frank's office for their bedroom. On this hot August Sunday afternoon, a cross breeze from the windows cooled them as they lay on the bed, dozing on and off after a long night during which Lena had given birth to their third child, William, the finest specimen of a boy Keast had ever seen. She'd been late, but that meant he was well developed, with smooth skin and alert eyes. When he'd been cleaned up and Lena reached for him, he caught her finger; he was going to be a Hercules. Keast lay on his side watching the two of them: Lena's eyes closed, her face still flushed from the long labor, her hair loose on the pillow; the baby—finally sleeping now—nestled between her full breasts. William's eyelids fluttered, as if he was dreaming. What could he have to dream about already? Though the passage from one world to another was no small thing.

The sound of children playing drifted up to them. Charlotte was shrieking—Elmer must be pushing her in the swing, probably too high. He ought to go see about it, but he felt so heavy and peaceful, his foot against Lena's, that he could not move.

A racket woke him, children stampeding into the room. “Papa Keast!” Rose shouted. “A man's here with a horse. He gave us jawbreakers and silver dollars. He wants you to come.”

“Shh. Your mother's sleeping.” He sighed as he pulled himself out of bed. Seemed like veterinarians should have a day of rest, all of God's creatures they tended.

The baby started squalling. Lena murmured something and guided
him to her nipple, her eyes still shut. The children went quiet, lining up to watch their little brother, the first real sight they'd had of him.

“Isn't he fine?” Keast arranged the sheet over her other breast, smoothed it over the baby's back.

“The man wants you to come,” Elmer said in small voice, his right cheek poked out with the jawbreaker, as if he still had the mumps. He had a funny look—probably been up to something, put a salamander down Rose's shirt or some such. Seemed like twins would get on better.

Keast led them out of the room, tiptoeing, and they went downstairs, Rose and Elmer sliding on the banister, Charlotte holding his hand. Hannah bumped along on her bottom one step at a time; she liked to climb up but not down.

Beyond the gate, a man in a straw hat stood with a horse on either side. Keast reached in his pocket for his glasses.

“By God,” he said. “Pinkerton!”

Pinkerton was grinning. “What do you think of this?” he said, tipping his head toward one of the horses.

A black quarter horse, a white blaze on its nose. It couldn't be. As Keast hurried toward him, the horse pricked its ears and nickered.

Kuro. He felt like weeping. He pushed open the gate and embraced him, his face against the strong smooth neck, thinking of Benji, the yelp he'd given when he first saw his new colt. He began to inspect Kuro—his hocks, his fetlocks, his teeth. Other than a harness sore, he appeared to be in pretty good shape.

“Where in tarnation did you find him, Frank?”

Pinkerton took off his hat, rubbed his face, wet with perspiration. He was going bald, and his face sagged like an old man's.

“Darnedest thing,” he said. “I was out in DeKalb County, sitting on the porch with a customer, and I saw him go by pulling a cartload of corn. I knew him right away. Paid double his worth, but I'd have paid a millionfold. Old Griffith didn't believe me at first when I said he'd been stolen, but he came right around when I showed him the cash.”

“Did Griffith buy him from Moffett? Does he know where S.O.B. is?”

“Bought him at an auction, almost six years ago.”

They looked at each other. “Well, that would make sense,” Keast said.

Pinkerton bent down to Elmer. “This horse belongs to you now. And to your pretty sister, when you'll let her have a turn.”

Elmer and Rose stared up at him. Keast drew them together, arms around their shoulders. “Children, do you remember your father?”

Frank looked dashed when they said nothing. Poor bastard. “You saw him—two years ago, wasn't it, Frank?—at Christmas.”

“That's right.” Frank squatted beside the children. “I brought you some skates and sleds. Did you like them?”

Keast squeezed Elmer's shoulder.

“Yes, sir,” Elmer said. “Thank you for the horse.”

“Want to give him a try?” Pinkerton said, standing.

“Yes, sir.”

Keast helped Elmer mount Kuro and stared after them as they began loping down Plum River Road. At this distance, the boy on Kuro's back could be Benji.

“At least I've done one good thing in this world,” Frank said, looking directly at Keast for the first time. His eyes were bloodshot, but Keast couldn't smell any drink on him.

“How are you, Frank?”

Frank resettled his hat, sighed. “Turns out I'm pretty good at selling plows. Better than I was at using them.” He waved a hand in the direction of the farmland that had once been his. “My father …” he said, then trailed off.

Keast clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on in the house, Frank. Stay for supper—stay the night. Lena will want to see you and show off her new baby.”

Rinn placed the letter
on the table after dinner. “From your mother, I believe.”

He rose and began to remove dishes from the table. “I've shut her from my mind,” he said. In the kitchen, he listened to Rinn opening the envelope.

“She sends her sincerest apologies for her abrupt appearance,” she called.

Benji poured hot water from the kettle into the sink and began to soap the dishes. He concentrated on the view of the garden; the peach tree was badly in need of pruning.

Rinn stood in the doorway of the kitchen. “She says,
I am very sorry, dear son, to have upset you in such a thoughtless manner. I am entirely at fault. Please forgive your mother, who loves you so dearly.”

Benji looked down at his hands, motionless in the water.

“She wants us to visit her in Unzen, where she and her husband, Hiroshi, are proprietors of an inn. They will welcome us, she says, with joy and gratitude. She wishes to have a further opportunity to explain the circumstances to you. Shall we go?”

“I thought you knew how painful it has been … always haunted by her so-called death. When I was a child, I even talked to her picture.” His voice broke. “I thought about that sword, the blood …”

Rinn put her arms around him. “I know you've suffered terribly. But your mother did her best, trying to arrange a good life for you, an education. I wish someone had done the same for me. I studied chamber pots and dirty floors.”

“You don't understand.”

“Shoichi needs a grandmother. All the effort to find out about her will be a waste if you refuse to see her.” She picked up a towel and began to dry a cup. “You're too stubborn.”

“So you always like to say.”

“Perhaps you're afraid.”

He whirled to face her. “My heart is made of courage.”

“Let's go, then. Just once.”

Rinn accepted his mother's invitation to visit Unzen for a week in August—the best time of year, his mother said, to escape the heat and humidity of Nagasaki. “I can't leave the shop that long,” Benji said. He would spend one night, two at the most; Rinn and Shoichi could do what they pleased.

They traveled by jinricksha south of Nagasaki through green hilly countryside, past farms with thatched houses, a watermill, groves of mandarin oranges, fields of tea. Benji looked at the fields, cultivated even on the slopes; most American farmers wouldn't know what to do with a hill, except leave it to pasture. He glanced at Rinn beneath her parasol, Shoichi asleep in her lap, a wide-brimmed hat protecting his delicate skin. When he was plowing in the brutal Illinois sun, he could not have begun to conceive of this moment.