The Pearl Diver (12 page)

I found myself daydreaming, after we were through, about what sex would feel like postmarriage. Would it become boring? Would there ever be a time when Hugh, like Win, came home unzipped because there was something more exciting out there?

“What is it, darling?” Hugh stroked my hair, as if he’d sensed my worry.

I didn’t want to seem too neurotic. “That new, ah, little finger trick of yours.”

“Did you like it?” Hugh practically crowed.

“Tremendously. Where did you learn it?” I said.

Hugh laughed softly. “I saw it in a pillow book I bought at Kinokuniya. They sold it to me in a plain brown wrapper! I can show you now, if you like.”

“I would love to see it.”

Hugh hopped into his underwear and started digging in his suitcase, giving a running commentary on the reaction of the young female salesclerk when he’d asked for the title. He brought the book over to me, and we were giggling over it when suddenly, the pattering of water in the bathroom ceased. There followed a light knock on the door separating the bathroom from our bedroom.

“The water is very cold. I turned it off!” Norie’s voice called out. “How can I turn on your water heater?”

Hugh’s eyes were laughing at me, silently, as he started buttoning up his Thomas Pink shirt. I had no time for fashion choices; I bundled myself into his bathrobe and went to the door, through which I loudly explained that there was no water heater in the bathroom itself, but if she waited ten minutes or so, there would be enough hot water running through the system again for her own shower.

“If she went into the bathroom while the water was running, how many more boundaries is she going to cross?” I whispered to Hugh as we finished dressing inside the bedroom.

“We might have to run away,” Hugh whispered back.

“I hear you,” I said. “But where?”

While driving through the Virginia countryside a few hours later, I started a few fantasies about that escape. The rolling green hills dotted by grazing sheep and decrepit old barns were almost obscenely picturesque. Not that there would be many opportunities for practicing international law or decorating houses—Hugh and I would have to shear sheep or make artisanal cheese.

Andrea was sitting silently in the backseat; I’d introduced Norie to her, after picking her up, and she’d accepted the situation without much protest—or friendliness, either. By now I knew that Andrea’s prickliness was probably a sign of how worried she was about the upcoming events. She was dressed in a manner that, for her, seemed semicasual: a long-sleeved voile blouse patterned with orchids, and fluid cream silk pants. She was wearing impossibly high heels, which she kicked off in the car.

After taking off her shoes, Andrea withdrew a package of Virginia Slims from her Coach bag. I told her to put them back.

“Shoot,” she said, “I didn’t know you were one of the anti-smoking Nazis.”

“It’s Hugh’s car,” I said. “He’d never lend it to me again if I brought it back smoky. And frankly, I can’t imagine why anyone
in the food business would smoke. Doesn’t it ruin your ability to appreciate food?”

“More than half the kitchen smokes,” Andrea said. “It’s normal for restaurant people to smoke. Our palates are fine; in fact, a cigarette at the end of a meal is perfect.”

“Andrea, if Bento were a smoking restaurant, you’d hate it,” I said. “Just think of what working for six hours in a three-thousand-square-foot ashtray would do to your clothes every night.”

“And your skin would be hurt,” Aunt Norie chimed in. “Your beautiful golden skin would look old too young. As well as your eyes. Rei-chan, don’t you think your friend’s eyes look almost Japanese?”

I glanced back at Andrea through the rearview mirror. “May I tell her about you?”

“Go ahead. I can’t get any more stressed out than I already am.”

I wound up explaining Andrea’s story in Japanese, just to make certain Norie understood how important the trip was. By the end of it, Norie looked as if she could use one of Andrea’s cigarettes.

“There must be a way that I can help. I can find your Japanese relatives when I return home,” Norie said in English. I’d noticed that on foreign ground, it was much stronger than it had ever been in Japan.

“Let’s think about today, Obasan. Actually, I’m worried that your presence might bring back memories for Andrea’s father,” I replied in English, so Andrea would understand.

“Mrs. Shimura, how old are you?” Andrea asked, surprising me with her intrusiveness. But without seeming embarrassed, Norie answered that she’d been born in 1951.

“Really! I would have guessed you were younger,” Andrea said. “What I’m thinking is, you could pass for my mother’s sister, because she had a younger sister born in 1954.”

“What’s the point of passing for someone she isn’t?” My hackles rose.

“I can use your aunt,” Andrea said. “I can use you both. If you let my father believe that you are family of my mother’s, come all the way to find out the truth, he’ll have to talk to us.”

I braked suddenly, causing the car behind me to honk. I pulled myself together and drove on. When I had calmed down, I said, “Andrea, I won’t lie. And I won’t let my aunt do it either. I’ve gotten in trouble for little lies. It’s why I was kicked out of Japan.”

“You won’t have to say a word,” Andrea drawled. “I’ll do all the talking.”

An hour later, we were at the JL Cafe. Andrea opened a glass door plastered with signs telling us to support state troopers, American freedom, and Jesus Christ, and we all filed in. Inside there was no hostess stand, rather a cheery, hand-lettered sign that said “Seat Yourself!” with a smiley face.

It was a picture-perfect diner, just like the ones from my childhood, when we drove into the farm belt for pick-your-own fruit or to go shopping for antiques. The only difference in this diner was that everyone inside it was black. I immediately felt that every eye was on my aunt and me, and wondered if this was what it felt like for black customers at Bento—there were some, but a minority compared to whites.

More than a few people glanced at us as we took the booth that Andrea selected instead of more public spots along the long, Formica-topped counter. Behind the counter was a vast griddle, where a tall, slightly hunched man of sixty was flipping pancakes. He glanced at us, nodded, and called out, “Marie!”

Marie, a slim woman in her forties with a sprinkling of freckles across her caramel-colored skin, came to our table with a pot of coffee in hand. We all nodded that we wanted coffee even though it was already eleven in the morning, and the thought of more caffeine made me anxious for the rest room.

After Marie had left, Andrea said very quietly, “That’s my dad behind the counter.”

Norie looked blank, and I guessed she hadn’t understood what Andrea had said. I translated, and my aunt shot the cook a disapproving look. “He hasn’t greeted us. In any restaurant in Japan, we would have been greeted!”

“No more English, okay?” Andrea said in a low voice. Marie was heading back to take the breakfast order. When she arrived, Andrea asked if they had any specials. I noticed Andrea’s voice was changing its timbre, becoming more Southern. I could understand the phenomenon. The Japanese I’d spoken with the people at the friendship group and even with Jiro at the restaurant had been formal. With Norie, my Japanese was faster and more casual.

“Yep,” Marie said. “Y’all just having breakfast or are you gonna order something from the lunch menu?”

Norie looked totally uncomprehending, and I realized how difficult this Southern dialect must sound to my aunt, who could barely understand Hugh’s Scottish accent after two years. I spoke under my breath to her in Japanese, and together we consulted the menu. Norie ordered fried rockfish, which didn’t surprise me since Japanese usually ate fish at every meal. Just that morning—after Hugh had slipped out unnoticed, of course—Norie had presented a dried bonito fish from her luggage and insisted on grating it to make soup for our breakfast. For some reason, the soup hadn’t sat well with me that morning, so I was now in the mood for starchy comfort, a grilled-cheese sandwich. Andrea ordered a BLT. Afterward, she added, “By the way, you could tell Robert Norton he’s got family here from out of town.”

Marie’s eyes passed rather incredulously over the three of us. “You sure about that?”

“Very,” Andrea said. “I’m his daughter. I grew up in D.C.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Marie looked at Andrea again. “You got his height and his nose, that’s for sure. What’s your name, honey?”

“Andrea. Andrea Norton.” My friend seemed to grow as she spoke her name.

Marie’s eyes widened and, tucking her order form in her apron pocket, she went off without another word.

“Do you think people around here ever heard about you?” I asked Andrea when we were alone again.

“It doesn’t seem like it. Ssh, I think it’s him coming out from behind the counter.”
I was sitting next to Andrea, so I shared her view of her father. He wore a white apron over a short-sleeved checked shirt. The apron was spotless, I noticed, and he had a kind of net over his close-cropped, graying Afro. When he saw our table, he did a double-take, then fixed his gaze on Andrea.

“Why did I do this?” she muttered.

“Don’t lose your nerve,” I whispered. “See, he’s coming over. Norie and I will visit the rest room. That’ll give you the first few minutes alone.”

When we came back out, I looked over at the booth where we’d been sitting and saw that lunch had been served. The time elapsed since the order had been given was five minutes. Just good service—or were we wanted out?

Robert Norton was sitting across from Andrea. I could see her face, but not his. Once I would have thought it a haughty expression, but now I knew it meant that she was scared to death.

“She wants us to come. She motioned her hand to me,” Norie said.

We walked back together, side by side. Norie bowed first, and I followed.

To my surprise, Andrea spoke up quickly. “Aunt Norie, may I introduce my father, Robert? And this is her daughter, who is my cousin, Rei. Rei studied English in school, but Aunt Norie doesn’t speak much.”

“Do you still live in Japan?” Robert Norton said. He didn’t stretch out a hand to greet us, but that made sense. Japanese were bowers, not shakers. He’d remember that from his time in Sasebo.

“Until recently, I lived in Toe-kyoe.” I drew out my vowels, trying to pronounce the city name the way Japanese did.

“Oh. Well, this is a surprise.”

“Oh, rearry?” I changed my
l
s to
r
s, and Aunt Norie nodded and smiled. I was speaking English the right way at last, the way she and her friends did.

“Yes. When, ah, I married Andrea’s mother, your family wasn’t too happy.”

“There is a Japanese saying, water washes everything away,” I said slowly, continuing to exaggerate my accent. “That means time makes forgiveness.”

“What Rei’s trying to say is that the family wants to understand what happened to Mom. Especially Aunt Norie here.” Andrea nodded at my aunt. “They need the rest of the things that were in the storage box, so they can bury them.”

“Bury them?” Robert asked.

“In the cemetery. If Mom’s really dead, she should have a marker somewhere. Her Japanese family wants to do it.”

“This is the first I heard of it.” Robert sounded uneasy.

Andrea was making mistakes. The Japanese wouldn’t bury mementos, they’d make a family altar around them. Would Robert know that?

“We have family altar, so pictures and personal items would be welcome,” I said slowly. “We seek the true story of what happened. You can say in English. I will translate for my aunt.”

“Not here,” Robert said tightly.

“We’ll wait for you to get through,” Andrea said.

Robert stared at Andrea, and it seemed to me a mix of emotions was running through him. He looked angry, sad, and, finally, very tired. “All right. I’ll have to call in Davon. When he gets here, you-all can follow me to the house. I still have a couple of boxes of odds and ends relating to your mother. I’ll give it to you.”

“Thanks. I’ll bring it back,” Andrea said.

“Keep it! Please.”

“Can you also tell us what you know about what happened?” Andrea asked.

“I told you ten years ago—”

“They haven’t heard it,” Andrea said. “And I’m sure they’ll have questions of their own.”

Robert Norton didn’t look happy at that. He got up, he said, to go back to the kitchen to call in Davon. When he was gone,
Andrea told us this was her half brother, Robert’s child by Lorraine. I attempted to eat my grilled cheese, but it had long grown cold, and I got a faint feeling of nausea from its taste. I guess I’d gotten too used to really good restaurant food. Aunt Norie, I feared, wouldn’t like the cornmeal-dipped fried fish in front of her; but after the first bite, she closed her eyes in rapture.

“
Oishi!”

“Delicious,” I translated for Andrea. Then, I got down to business. “I don’t know how you want me to play this.”

“You’re doing fine. You, too, Norie-san.”

“You must try the fish!” Norie started cutting off a piece for me with the fork I wasn’t using. “It is so good. Do you think, when we visit your house, your father can teach me how to cook this?”

I toyed with the sandwich, and Andrea, too, didn’t seem hungry. After about fifteen minutes, a tall, slim black man who looked barely twenty walked in the diner. He wore a baseball cap backward and overalls over a muscle T. He had a warm, open expression: A baby face, I thought to myself.

“Davon,” Andrea said under her breath. Her eyes widened as she looked at him; he glanced at her without recognition and went behind the counter and into the kitchen.

“I guess your father didn’t tell him why he was coming in,” I said.

“I’m sure the staff will let him know.” Andrea sighed. “I never met him before. Lorraine kept him away.”

“You should let him know who you are. He’d probably like to have a half sister.”

“I’m sure he’s heard no end of crap about me,” Andrea muttered.

“There’s always a chance to change that image—”

“Here’s my father. Come on, we better catch up with him just in case he plans to bolt.” Andrea laid a twenty on the table.

“We haven’t gotten the check yet,” I worried.

“This’ll cover it, easy. And it’ll make Marie happy.”

“Thank you for the lunch,” Norie said, rising to her feet and bowing. “But really, I am older than you two, so I should be pay—”

“Ssh. Not so much English, okay?” Andrea said as we moved toward the exit. Outside, Robert Norton was getting into the pickup truck I’d noticed earlier.

“Do you remember where the house is?” he said out the open window.

Andrea shook her head. “Not really. I’ll follow you.”