Authors: Ruth L. Ozeki

Tags: #Fiction, #Literary

My Year of Meats (28 page)

BOOK: My Year of Meats

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So did I. Quickly.

“Oh my God. He
beats
her.”

“So she says.”

“I knew he was evil.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Yeah, but I never imagined anything like this....”

“Takagi, I don’t know whether you can take this at face value. I mean, this woman sounds slightly deranged to me.”

I think I must have gasped. He backed off a bit.

“What I mean is simply that a normal Japanese woman would never write a letter like this.”

“Kenji, you are a racist and a pig.”

He ignored me completely. “Takagi, you’re on parole, remember. And I am supposed to look after you. This is just the type of thing ... I mean, you mustn’t... It’s the boss’s wife, damn it!”

“You don’t get it, do you? This woman is in trouble.”

Kenji leaned against the door and folded his arms. “So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Tell her to leave that disgusting husband of hers. Do you know I saw him cry over a lap dancer in Texas? God, he’s pathetic.”

“I’m warning you, Takagi. Leave it alone. You’re not Japanese. You’re just going to make it worse for everyone.”

Ma used to do this to me and Dad all the time, cop this attitude of
you are a crude, uncivilized foreigner and cannot possibly understand our delicate and unique Japanese sensibility
, and there is absolutely no point in arguing. They’ve been practicing this one for over a millennium. So I told him.

“He tried to rape me in Memphis, Kenji.”

This brought him up short, for a moment at least. Then he said, “Jane, you don’t understand how these things work.”

“Screw you, Kenji.”

Kenji shrugged. He looked down at the T-shirt. “What does ‘Sidewinders’ mean?”

“It’s a baseball team.”

“Oh? Never heard of it.”

“Yeah, well, it was a really popular minor-league team until it got bought out. It’s a Western thing. You wear the shirt out West, you’ll fit right in.”

“Thanks, I wish I could. It would be nice to get out of the office....” He tossed the T-shirt over his shoulder and continued to watch me closely.

“You’ve gained a little weight,” he said.

This is something else they do—make these extremely personal observations, like “You have a pimple on your nose” or “You’re really fat, aren’t you?” I used to think it was just Ma, but when I went to Japan I realized it’s a national trait.

“Good-bye, Kenji,” I said firmly.

He shrugged and opened the door to leave, then paused.

“Oh, by the way, that Flowers woman has been calling almost every day, asking for a tape. She’s driving us all nuts. Can you do something about this, please?”

“Sure, Kenji, I’ll handle it. Good-bye.”

I had no time for Suzie Flowers today. I sat down at my desk and wrote a final report to Ueno about the Colorado scout. Then I reread the fax from Akiko and wrote her a response. I got as far as putting the sheets into the fax machine, when I realized that it was too risky to send it to her home number. Her husband might get to it first, assuming it was for him. So I telephoned instead. A woman’s voice answered.

“Hai, Ueno degozaimasu ...”

I addressed her in polite Japanese, which I have never been particularly good at.

“Moshi moshi
... Hello. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but is the wife of Mr. Joichi Ueno present?”

“Yes ...” I could hear her hesitate. “This is she.”

“This is Takagi from New York....”

“Oh yes, of course. Thank you.” It was clear from her voice that it was bad timing, but I persevered.

“I have written a response to your questions, which I would like to send, but I’m afraid that, given your circumstances, it might be unwise to fax it to you there ... ?”

“Oh yes, certainly.”

There was a long silence.

“Is there a time when I could send it, sometime when you would be alone to receive it? Perhaps during the day, while your husband is at work ... ?”

“Oh yes.” Her voice brightened. “Yes, that would be fine. Tomorrow at noon would be just fine.”

AKIKO

“Who was that?” John asked, as Akiko replaced the receiver.

“No one. Just the census taker. They came by today, but I was out at the market. They said they’d come back again tomorrow.”

“How rude, to call people at home so late.”

The phone rang again. John frowned and stood up. “I’ll answer it,” he said. “I’ll tell them not to—”

Akiko elbowed him out of the way and wrenched the.receiver out of his hand.

“Moshi moshi
... ,” she said breathlessly.
“Moshi moshi
...” Slowly she let the receiver drop from her ear. “It’s a fax,” she whispered, as she stared, stricken, at the humming machine.

John glanced at her strangely, then looked at the top of the paper as it was slowly fed out. “It’s from the New York office, from Takagi.”

Akiko backed away toward the bathroom.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” John said, as she closed the door quietly between them and locked it from the inside. She sat on the lid of the toilet and listened. There was no noise at all from the living room. She unlocked the door and listened some more, then walked down the corridor. John was sitting at the table, reading the fax. He looked up at her.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Mutely, she nodded. He smiled a little, then went back to reading.

September 18

Dear Mr. Ueno,

I am back from Colorado, having set up everything for the Bunny Dunn show. I am confident that she will be our best American Wife yet! And talk about beef! You have never seen so much beef in one place! Acres of it.

As a background to this attractive family and their abundant beef, the Colorado setting offers the type of scenic beauty that conforms perfectly to Japanese people’s preconceptions of America’s “Big Rugged Nature.” Wide-open prairies, snow-capped mountains ... Additionally, it is a state that is rich in history and human interest. There are many interesting examples of “Wild West” stories, including one that the Dunns’ son, Gale, told me. It is about a cannibal named Alferd Packer, who killed five traveling companions and ate their remains during a particularly cold winter in 1874. Gale has agreed to tell this story on-camera. It would be an effective way of evoking the hardships endured by the early American pioneer, but if you think it would create a conflict of interest with BEEF-EX product, we certainly don’t have to include it in the program.

Sincerely,

Takagi

“Baka,”
said John, throwing the fax on the table. “Fool.”

JANE

Akiko’s fax threw me for a loop. Maybe it was because my shows were broadcast in Japan, on the other side of the globe, but up until now I’d never really imagined my audience before. She was an abstract concept: at most, a stereotypical housewife, limited in experience but eager to learn, to be inspired by my programs and my American wives; at the very least, a demographic statistic, a percentage point I’d hungered after, to rub in a pesky executive’s face—Akiko’s husband’s face, actually. Now it hit me: what an arrogant and chauvinistic attitude this was. While I’d been worried about the well-being of the American women I filmed as subjects, suddenly here was the audience, embodied in Akiko, with a name and a vulnerable identity.

These dawning recognitions come at you like shock waves. They pass over you and in their wake nothing is the same.

Like in the cemetery in Montana, when I caught myself selecting names, and I knew in an instant that I would have the baby if the baby would have me. I could have aborted a fetus without an identity, but once that fetus had punched through its own anonymity and made its small self known, abortion was no longer an option.

And like in Chicago with Sloan, when he said “our baby.” After that, a warm little fantasy bloomed in a corner of my mind, where Sloan and I lived with “our baby,” almost a normal family. I won’t go as far as a sloping lawn and a two-car garage, or even a freestanding housing structure—I live in New York, and as far as I’m concerned, those things exist only in an America I construct for television in Japan, not one I can imagine for myself. But I wanted our baby to grow up safe and secure, and Sloan could provide that.

You see, the doctor told me that because of my deformed uterus, the baby faced increased risks of miscarriage or premature birth, and provided it survived my womb, then it would still have to survive my life. I was worried. Sloan could provide security, but the fact was he hadn’t volunteered to do so, and I didn’t trust that he would. And even if he did, I was afraid of being emotionally dependent on him, terrified of becoming financially so. No, it was up to me to provide for the child, and the only way to do that was to keep my job.

And that was my problem. I didn’t know how I could. Maybe my shows weren’t much as documentaries, but I had believed in them. And Akiko’s fax brought my audience, and my responsibility, into sharp focus. It was clear to me that I couldn’t continue to celebrate beef. I had to tell some truths about meats, even if it meant getting fired.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Akiko, wondering what she was like. Ueno’s wife. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t suppress the memory of the man, his foul and humid aura, the feeling of his fingers trying to penetrate me. How did she endure it? I waited until ten in the evening, phoned her again to make sure she was alone, then faxed my response. Everything seemed fine. Still, I couldn’t shake this sense of oppressive responsibility. No. That’s not it, either. Not responsibility. More like guilt. Like I’d already done something wrong.

AKIKO

Dear Akiko Ueno:

Thank you for your fax. I am glad that you have enjoyed my programs and that you feel they have helped you. I want to try and answer your questions as best I can.

First of all, I don’t think that eating lamb caused your menstruation to start again. And second, you asked if eating meat can cause sterility or impotence. The answer is probabLy no.

Having said this, however, there is evidence that hormones in the environment, including those used in meat production, may contribute to the overall decline in fertility rates. And I have come to think that American meat is unhealthy and it’s probably a good idea to stop eating it.

Now, you asked where to go to have a happy life like Dyann and Lara. I wish I could give you the answer. But there is one thing I do know for sure. If your husband hits you, you must leave him immediately. This is the first step to a happy life. Can you do this? Do you have anyplace to go?

I want to warn you that I will try to make my next program about bad meats. Please watch it, but please be careful, because I am sure it will make your husband very angry.

Sincerely,

Takagi

P.S. If there is ever anything I can do to help you, please don’t hesitate to call me.

John put down the letter. A liver-colored cloud blossomed from his stiff white collar, creeping across his face.

“Where is the fax you sent to her?”

Akiko knelt on the floor in front of him. Her back was straight, but her head was bowed. She shook it from side to side, struck mute, then suddenly deafened as well by a blow John delivered to the side of her head with a heavy English dictionary. It knocked her over and was followed by the low-pitched roar.

He got to his feet and kicked her on his way into the bedroom. He came back with her purse. He opened it and held it upside down, showering the contents onto the floor in front of her: keys, lipsticks, a handkerchief, two sanitary napkins, liner notes for her Bobby Joe Creely CD, shopping lists, her little pillow book diary, recipe cards, and the two faxes, folded into quarters. She watched them fall onto the tatami and made a grab for them, but he kicked her hand away, picked them up, and started to read. Very slowly, Akiko reached out her hand toward her pillow book. She had it in her hand when his foot came down, crushing her wrist. He pocketed the diary along with all the faxes and walked toward the door.

“Have my suit dry-cleaned,” he said before he slammed it. “And pack my suitcase. A two-week trip. No, better make it three. I’ll stay in town until I leave. I’ll be back later to pick it up.”

JANE

Sloan sprawled on Grammy’s love seat. The light from the pink globe lamp was soft in the dusk and burnished his face, and I lay on the rug at his feet, feeling quite content. My great-grandmother Little had hooked the rug we’d just screwed on, and I never had liked her much. My grandfather Takagi’s portrait hung on the wall behind Sloan, and their two heads thus juxtaposed formed a striking contrast. All in all I was enjoying the improbable ebb and flow of my personal history and feeling quite smug about posterity. I’d just gotten the results of the amniocentesis and everything was fine.

Sloan was watching me carefully.

“What?”

“Nothing. You look nice lying there naked on your great-granny’s rug. What would she say?”

“Before or after she saw you?”

“How about when she saw you?”

“I know exactly what she said when she saw me. Naked on this very rug, in fact. I was a few weeks old. She said, ‘How could that little Jap be a Little baby?’ ”

“Really?”

“Really. My ma told me. Ma had a pretty hard time of it in Minnesota. Mostly from Great-Granny Little, who hung around forever and finally died when I was eight. Ma never had another kid and I think that’s why. My grandparents, on the other hand, were wonderful to her and to me. They were dairy farmers. They went bankrupt. Lost the proverbial farm to agribusiness and turbocows. I was really little. I don’t remember much about it.”

“Where did your parents meet?”

“You know. The old story. Ma was a prostitute on the streets of Tokyo, Dad was a GI—”

“No shit ... really?”

BOOK: My Year of Meats

4.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

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