Nora & Kettle (24 page)

44. KIN

NORA

Kettle is quiet, something playing behind his eyes that I can’t see. His fists are clenched, each finger, each muscle wound up tighter than a jack in the box ready to pop open. I don’t understand his mood. I thought he’d be happy. But then there are a lot of things I don’t understand about Kettle.
Though
I’d like to.

We sit side by side on the silver bus, a crevice in the seats separating us. I stare out the window, lean my head on the glass and let the vibrations chase my thoughts out of my ears as the land lowers gradually. Easing down like giant steps until the spaces between buildings become larger and their height lessens.

Front lawns shimmer with moisture, green carpets leading to the white-boarded homes and bright red doors with large brass knockers.

I roll my face toward Kettle. He seems to tense more and more as we leave the city behind. So much for the relaxing ‘country life’. I snort quietly and he snaps out of his trance, showing me the deep, dark blue of his eyes that seem rimmed with fear. “Thanks for coming with me. I don’t…” he starts, looking at his lap.

“You’re welcome. Besides, I want to meet the boy whose bed I’m sleeping in,” I say with a smirk.

Kettle’s eyes stay on his hands, his lip curling slightly. “I wouldn’t tell him about that.”

My eyes fall to the floor, which looks like a tin roof about to lift off. “Oh. Will he be upset?”

The bus shrieks to a stop and we stand and wobble. “No. It’s nothing like that. It’s just… he’ll tease you.” He wraps his hand around the metal bar just above my own. We are so different. I look away. “That’s just Kin,” he says with a more relaxed smile on his face. “He teases everyone.”

He steps behind me as we exit, and I hear him unevenly exhale. This is the street. We cross over and check the numbers. It can only be a couple of blocks down the road.

***

Kettle walks painfully slow. Stopping every now and then, glancing down the empty driveways. Scaling the walls of every home with his eyes. He’s acting like a wary, wild animal, like there’s a man with a net tiptoeing toward him and he’s counting the exit routes.

We reach number two hundred and two and he stops, his feet lining up neatly against the crack in the footpath, an invisible wall preventing him from walking further. Orange and brown leaves scuttle over his scuffed sneakers and a sign hung from metal chains on a messily painted, white post swings reluctantly in the breeze. It reads in neat, black writing:
Craftman House, Rehabilitation for Returned Serviceman!
I arch an eyebrow at the exclamation point.

Kettle shoves his hands in his pockets. “You said it was a Home.”

I don’t know why it matters. “That’s what the nurse told me.”

“How the hell did you swing this one, Kin?” he mutters to himself, nudging the signpost lightly with his foot.

He stalks up the garden path, ducking under hanging planters, which seem to be dripping from every horizontal beam or branch.

Wind chimes and pinwheels are planted in every garden bed of the overgrown yard. They clatter together, making an ungodly noise with every breeze. Kettle gives me a sideways glance as if to say
be careful
as he starts climbing the stairs, pausing on the last step, which creaks under his feet. He mutters something I can’t quite make out and steps up to the porch.

I join him on the welcome mat that just reads we… me, the middle letters scrubbed away from so many polite boots. He lifts his fist to knock and I grab his hand, startled at how hard it is. Shakily, I let go.

“It says ring the bell,” I murmur, my eyes going to the large brass bell screwed to the doorframe on our left. He rings the bell. It makes an odd, dull clunking sound, which I doubt anyone would hear, and we step back and wait.

There’s something stirring inside him. A bad memory. Guilt. Anger. I’m not sure, but the way his eyes wander over every inch of the porch, the way his finger picks at the peeling paint around the door, makes me worry. It makes me want to know what he’s thinking.

KETTLE

Loose change jingles in his overall pockets. It’s our warning bell.

From beneath the porch stairs, all I can see are two large boots. Two untied shoelaces.

I touch my heart and remember how those boots felt pressed down on my chest. His sneering face, the flour that rained down on my face, in my eyes, up my nose.

“There,” he’d said and then he spat on me. “It’s no good. You’re no good. Ain’t nothing we can do about yer yellow skin. Yer useless.”

I rolled away, tears turning to glue.

He hates me. They all hate me.

NORA

Kettle rings the bell again just as the porch vibrates from footsteps within. “All right! All right!” The door swings open and a large woman wearing a circus tent fills the entrance. She narrows her eyes, squishes her lips together, and scrutinizes us through the screen door. “Yeah?”

Kettle coughs, pulls his cap over his eyes, and says, “Scuse me, ma’am. We’re looking for…”

A tall woman swans up behind the larger lady, peering over her shoulder. She is beautiful, with kind, crinkled eyes. She smiles at us both and leans over the larger woman. They both laugh and clap their hands. “Visitors!” the larger woman exclaims.

“Splendid! Visitors!” the tall lady shouts. “Come, come. Come in.” She extends a long arm around both our shoulders like a lasso and pulls us inside.

Our hesitant feet skid across the dark wood floors. The scents of vanilla and burnt butter hang in the air, and I lick my lips.

“I’m Miss Anna and this is Miss Lake,” the taller one says. “Now who did you say you were looking for?” She sweeps us into the kitchen like two dust bunnies. Kettle seems lost for words, his face flushed, his eyes unsure of where to look.

“We’re looking for Katsutoshi…” I say slowly, trying to remember Kin’s last name. Somehow, we’re already sitting at a yellow kitchen table, hot tea being poured into pretty flowered cups and steam pluming in front of our eyes.

They both throw their arms up in the air, and then Miss Lake turns around so Miss Anna can tie her apron strings. “Oh, he’ll be glad to have some visitors. He’s outside with the physical therapist right now. Determined young man, he is.” She points out the high kitchen windows, the paint wanting to feather and fly away just from staring at it too long. We both stand in unison to look.

Kettle whispers, “Kin,” pushing his chair back and making his way to the back door. I stand more slowly, giving him some space and giving myself a second to breathe, for my heart not to strangle itself by taking on his pain, his hope, his love. It is so clear that he loves his brother very much, and it hurts me. It makes me think of Frankie. It makes me like him even more, which seems like a bad idea.

I pause in the doorway, my toes hanging from the back step as the door hits them, bang, bang, bang. I watch from behind the screen, my vision blurred by a thousand tiny holes. The scene darker. Greener.

KETTLE

For a moment, I forget everything. Everything. My feet hit the wet grass and I walk fast toward the back of my friend, my brother. He sits in a wicker chair, cane stalks spraying from the back like a peacock’s tail. There are men on my left and right, dressed in pajamas, robes loosely open. A puff of cigarette smoke sails into my eyes and I stifle a cough. Someone laughs.

My eyes are on the back of Kin’s head, his dark hair combed and oiled, his shoulders looking strong beneath a khaki shirt. He looks okay.
How can he look okay?

A man in uniform with close-cropped hair is kneeling down, talking to him, his expression open and encouraging. Kin mutters something and the man in uniform chuckles, holds out his arms, and goes to hug Kin.

I slow. Stop. Don’t know what’s going on.

Kin leans into the embrace, and then the man pulls him to his feet. My throat crackles and dries out. I put my hand to it, rub my skin, and swallow. They’re not hugging.

Kin leans all his weight on the man and wobbles to his feet. A crutch is handed to him. He relies on it and the man’s shoulder heavily.

He is not okay.

They inch toward parallel, wooden bars with blue mats beneath them. One of Kin’s legs seems to move fine, but the other is dead weight, dragging behind him like the bat in a man’s hand as he’s about to beat you. My own feet are leaden in my sneakers. I tell them to move, but they won’t. They dig deeper into the grass until I’m sure I’m only two feet tall. I am so close to Kin, and I can’t move.

He hasn’t seen me yet. Kin’s eyes are on his own feet as he holds the bars and moves from one end to the other. Turning is difficult and he kicks one leg out with the other to shuffle one-hundred-and-eighty degrees. When the man offers to help, Kin shakes his head. A small smile creeps up my arm and lands on my face. That’s my brother. Always so proud.

Once he’s arranged his feet, he glances up and that’s when I realize I’m just standing there, staring at him. He takes one look at me, looks down at his legs, back up, and frowns.

Move your feet
, I tell myself, and Kin as well. It’s selfish. But I don’t want to be responsible for this. I don’t want to be the reason he’s here.

I lift one foot and then the other, two things I’ve always taken for granted, and move.

Kin shuffles through the bars to meet me, lifting his eyes to mine every now and then. I wait at the other end, my eyes stretching over the large tree shading the yard. Then they rise to the city, to the sky, to a place where I don’t feel so ashamed of what I’ve done.

When he reaches me, his face is red and sweaty from exertion, his arms wobbling under his weight.

To me, he says casually, “Hey Kettle.” To the man in uniform, he says, “Kevin, let’s go again.”

Kevin nods and helps him turn around.

Through bursts of breath and curse words, he turns his head to me and says, “Walk with me.” Impossible humor in his voice. I move next to him and creep forward at his pace. My mouth is holding in all these sad, scary things. I want to tell him I didn’t think I had a choice. I didn’t want him to die.
I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.
Before I can say any of these things, he grunts, “It’s not your fault,” as his hands jump forward on the bar.

“Huh?” I manage.

“Stop looking at me like that. I know you already have the weight of the world on your shoulders…” He pauses, breathes in and out, and slips his hand further along the bar. “But I’m not on that scale, brother.”

I shake my head and stare at the ground, my hand going to the bar to steady myself. “I’m so sorry, Kin. I really am. I wish I’d made it through the gates that day. I wish I’d gotten you help sooner. I wish…”
I just wish things were different.

Kin sighs loudly and stops. “Look at me. Stop looking at the ground or the clouds. Kettle, I’m okay. I’m going to be okay. And that’s
because
of you. You did what you had to, to protect me and to protect our home and the boys.” This is a new voice, not big brother, not best friend. It is independent of those things.

“But…”
Look at you, Kin. Your leg, your body…

He reaches the end of the bars, and Kevin hands him two crutches. “I think that’ll do for today, Mister Ikeda.” Kin nods and then winks at me, throwing one crutch on the ground.

“I’m Mister Ikeda here, not nip, not street kid, can you believe it?” he asks.

I laugh, throttling some of my anxiousness. “I really can’t.”

At this, Kin holds the bar with one hand and takes a swipe at me with his crutch. I jump back, but he connects with my shins. “I might be slower these days, but I can still beat your ass.”

A door slamming shut and a rush across the grass.

Nora’s panting breath hits my ears. I watch as Kin’s eyes widen with surprise and then settle into a smug smile.

“Kettle,” she says breathlessly, her hand going to my shoulder, hovering and then clamping over the wooden bar instead. “What’s going on? Are you two fighting?” Her eyes dart frantically back and forth between us.

Kin laughs loudly, dramatically. “Even in my sorry condition, there would be no fight. Little brother wouldn’t dare!”

I grumble. Nora blushes and turns her eyes to the grass. “Oh, sorry. I was mistaken.” She glances up at me, warm honey eyes sort of smoldering. “Kettle, would you like me to leave?”

Kin hops toward the chair. He collapses and the wicker squeaks. Smiling widely, he says, “Please don’t,” in his best charming voice. “Thanks, Kevin. See you tomorrow.”

Kevin tips his chin and leaves. I roll my eyes.

“May I have the pleasure of your name?” Kin drawls as we approach him. He holds out his hand for her to take, and I’m way too happy when she doesn’t take it.

She whispers shyly, “Kite.”

Kin arches an eyebrow. “Kite. Well Kite, Kettle, have a seat.” He gestures to the grass. We both sit down at his feet, moisture seeping into our clothes. I watch Nora tuck her legs to the side, the skirt making it difficult to sit on the ground.