Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala (16 page)

“He was—” She paused and swallowed dryly. “He was standing at the foot of the bed. But I wasn’t dreaming this time. I was awake, and I saw him.”

“How can you be sure you weren’t asleep?”

Miko swallowed hard and looked down. “It wasn’t just last night. I … I’ve been seeing him at different times in the day, too. Not just at night.”

“And is he always wearing the same headband?”

“Yes, and the same flight suit.”

Miko lowered her gaze to her folded hands in her lap and shuddered at the memory. Her knuckles were white, and the blue veins stood out beneath her parchment-like skin.

Dave remained silent as he pulled to a stop at a red light. He glanced at Miko, then reached out and patted the back of her hands gently.

“Have you talked to your mother about this?”

Miko nodded, but she was unable to look him in the eyes when she said, “I mentioned it to her, but it’s hard to explain … especially in her condition. But I’ll ask her when I get there. I have a feeling she knows more about this than she’s letting on, but—you know, she’s from the old country. She considers it impolite for a child to ask too many questions of a parent.”

Dave smiled. “You’re in your sixties, Miko, and she still considers you a child.”

Before Miko could reply, he gave the back of her hands another light pat and then gripped the steering wheel with both hands when the traffic light turned green.

“These headbands they wore … the
kamikaze
pilots … Was the rising sun design and the message really painted in blood?”

Miko nodded. “In some instances, yes.” She still didn’t look at her husband. “My mother lived near a girls’ elementary school. The students there painted the designs using their own blood.”

“Children?” Dave sighed and shook his head. “I can’t believe that … that level of fanaticism.”

Miko was about to correct him, as she had so many times before, but the truth was, even after being married to her for forty years, he still didn’t fully comprehend or appreciate her Japanese heritage. It wasn’t fanaticism. It was loyalty and devotion and patriotism to the homeland. Above all, it was about honor. The
kamikaze
pilots were willing to give their blood for the defense and honor of their emperor and his people, so everyone was willing to give their blood … even children. When she raised her head and turned to look at her husband, she saw something reflected in the driver’s side window that startled her. It was the face of a young Japanese pilot, the same one who was haunting her dreams. When she let out a tiny cry, Dave sighed again as he glanced at her.

“It’s only for a week or so,” he said, obviously misunderstanding her reaction. “You’ll be home next Friday.”

“Yes, unless …”

Miko couldn’t say anymore. Dave’s pale profile was reflected in the side window, but that other face—as thin and insubstantial as her husband’s reflection—had been staring straight at her with dark, hollow eyes. With steadily mounting horror, she watched as the apparition’s lips moved. Even though Miko couldn’t hear what he said, she could read his lips well enough to know that he was repeating what he had whispered to her late last night and all those other nights. He spoke Japanese, but, roughly translated, what he said meant: “There is no honor in this,” or “This is dishonorable.”

A surge of guilt filled Miko, and like so many nights before, she wondered what he meant?

What is dishonorable? … Is it something I’ve done … or am doing now? … Or is it something I’m about to do?

She doubted that it had anything to do with her visit to her eighty-three year-old mother, whose illness had finally put her into a nursing home. Miko had been raised correctly and, even at her advanced age, she was a dutiful daughter.

So what is it? … What is without honor? … If I don’t know what it is, how can I do anything about it?

Sadness made her heart ache as she contemplated being separated from Dave for ten days and nine nights. Would those dreams and that ghostly pilot follow her all the way to Los Angeles? Even three thousand miles away from home, would she see the figure wearing a
kamikaze
headband, staring at her with the eyes of the dead as he spoke to her?

“…
There is no honor in that
…”

As they entered the airport, Miko’s nervousness steadily increased until she could barely stand it. She was on the verge of tears as Dave took the exit for the gate where her flight to
L.A. would board, but she held them back. She couldn’t cry and show weakness in the face of duty.

That
would be dishonorable!

— 2 —

The old woman’s hands trembled, and her eyes filmed with gathering tears as she stared at the old letter. After so many years, the rice paper had yellowed and was fragile with age. Kyoko had read this page so many times in the years after the war that she no longer needed to look at it. Every line, every word, every pen stroke was engraved in her memory. Still, she found solace simply looking at the actual script Ichiro had written to her so long ago. She had lost count of how many times she had traced each graceful line of his calligraphy, imagining that, even in death, his hand was resting on her, gently guiding it as she retraced the words he had written. The delicate paper was stained and close to worn through on the edges from being held and caressed for so long.

… We never speak of our fears because fear does not exist. We are ready to do our duty to the glorious honor of our Emperor and Nippon. But to you, Kyoko, I can tell you the truth. Every night, I have the same dream. I see a city. Its buildings lie in smoking ruins. I am afraid this city is in Japan—maybe Tokyo or Kyoto or Yokohama. I don’t recognize it, but all around me, I see fire and destruction and death. And I feel—I don’t know how to describe it—but as impossible as it seems, I know that our unborn child is lying dead in those ruins. It is impossible for me to know the future, I know, but this dream—which comes to me night after night in the barracks while others are asleep—is as real as any memory I have. When I fly my final mission—which may be as early as tomorrow morning—I will carry the memory of you and our unborn child with me. Please name her Miko, after my grandmother.

Kyoko’s hands were stiff and curled with arthritis that made it difficult for her to replace the letter in the enameled box where she had kept it all those years. Worse still were the emotions that filled her because it wasn’t their child—who had been born more than sixty years ago—who lay in those smoking ruins.

It was Ichiro.

Although there was no way of knowing for certain, Kyoko believed all her life, ever since that beautiful autumn day in September, 1944, that her lover, her Ichiro, had successfully flown his plane into one of the American battleships and destroyed it, taking with him many more lives than his own, which he so honorably sacrificed to his emperor and his nation.

—3 —

Miko’s heart was racing high and fast in her throat when she leaned across the car seat and gave her husband a fleeting kiss on the cheek. After so many years together, their displays of affection had become perfunctory, but the sudden intensity of what she was facing filled her with near desperation. She wanted to connect with this man, the man she loved and who had loved her so well for so long. She wanted him to know how much she loved him.

“Ahh, come on, now,” Dave said, waving his hand at her and smiling as the tears in her eyes threatened to spill over. “Everything’s gonna be fine. I’ll be fine. And you’ll be home in about a week.”

Miko held her breath and pursed her lips.

“Besides,” Dave continued, “you know you won’t relax until you’ve made sure your mother is all set in that assisted living facility.”

“I know,” Miko said, bowing slightly. She had so much to say, but—sadly—there was nothing more she
could
say. She wanted to believe that her apprehension about the flight was manifesting itself in these visions of the
kamikaze
pilot. There was no ghost haunting her, trying to communicate with her. She was being foolish, allowing her fears to get the better of her.

With the car idling in front of the airport entrance, Dave popped the trunk latch and got out to help her with her luggage. She had one small carry-on, which she slung over her shoulder with her purse, and one larger suitcase on wheels, which she would have to check in at the ticket counter.

After a quick embrace and kiss on the sidewalk, Miko gripped the handle of her suitcase and, as bravely as she could, turned and walked through the revolving doors into the terminal. Looking back through the tinted plate glass windows, she caught a fleeting glimpse of Dave as he got back into the car and drove off. When she turned to proceed to the check-in counter, she let out a gasp and froze in her tracks.

Standing directly in front of her, no more than fifteen feet away, was the
kamikaze
pilot. He looked completely out of place in the bustle of activity that swirled around him. His old-fashioned flight suit and short, black hair were ridiculously out of style, but Miko was frozen with fear. His eyes held a dull, dead gleam as he stared at her, unblinking. His lips, pale and thin, twitched as he said something, but the airport corridor was too noisy for Miko to hear his words. It didn’t matter. She knew, without hearing him, exactly what he was saying.

“Hey! Come on! Keep moving, will yah?” a voice growled at her an instant before a burly man wearing a New York Yankees jacket bumped into her from behind. He hit her hard enough to knock her off balance, and she almost fell.

Torn from her reverie, Miko turned in slow motion and watched as the man who had bumped into her strode away without so much as a backward glance or word of apology. When she turned again, the
kamikaze
pilot was no longer standing in front of her. He had vanished like a wisp of smoke, but still … she could sense his presence somewhere close by.

Miko’s legs felt stiff and too weak to support her as she started toward the check-in counter. There was already a long line, but it was moving along quickly. She squeezed the handle of her suitcase so tightly her hand and wrist throbbed. Her breath came in short gulps. It was a seasonably mild morning, and there was no reason for the airport to have the air conditioning running, but Miko half-expected to see her breath mist in the air when she exhaled.

As the coldness penetrated her, the unnerving thought that she might be having a stroke entered her mind. Maybe that was why she was having these hallucinations. She wanted to attribute it to pre-flight jitters, but even if it was the case, how could she explain seeing a man who she
knew
was dead?

Unable to stop such thoughts, she took her place in line for the ticket counter and waited, inching her way ahead as each passenger moved forward. She wished she could calm down, but the tension coiled up inside her so badly it was almost unbearable. A mother and her young daughter, who was maybe ten or eleven years old, were ahead of her. The little girl kept stealing glances at Miko, watching her with a mixture of curiosity and shyness. Under ordinary circumstances, Miko would have smiled back at the girl and nodded a silent greeting, but this morning the little girl’s fleeting looks only made Miko feel all the more self-conscious. She was too wound up even to make eye contact with the girl, so she lowered her gaze and stared at the floor. Her shoulders hunched as she cringed beneath the steady gaze of the little girl and the dead man she knew was somewhere nearby, watching her.

By the time she got to the ticket counter, Miko was feeling light-headed from hyperventilating. She watched with curious detachment as she handed her ticket to the woman at the desk. The woman said something but had to repeat herself a few times before Miko finally understood that she was telling her that her luggage was checked in and that her flight would be boarding soon. She told Miko the gate number several times before Miko asked her to write it down on a piece of paper. The woman smiled and patiently showed her where it was already written on the envelope holding her boarding pass.

With a quick bow, Miko left the line and proceeded toward the gate, which was on the second level. She hesitated at the bottom of the escalator and was not surprised when she looked up to see the
kamikaze
pilot again. He was standing at the top of the moving stairway, gazing down at her with his hands on his hips as though attempting to block her. The red sun on his headband glistened as if with fresh blood. Thin red lines of blood ran down the sides of his face. The scarf wrapped around his neck flapped as if caught in a strong wind even though Miko knew there was no such wind inside the terminal.

“Pardon me,” the woman with the little girl said as they made their way around Miko and started up the escalator. The little girl stared at Miko, and Miko was about to wave to her, but she was amazed when, at the top of the stairs, both mother and daughter passed right through the
kamikaze
pilot as if he wasn’t there. As they walked away, their figures shimmered for an instant as the
kamikaze
pilot wavered and then resolved more clearly.

“You gonna stand there all day?” a gruff voice behind her said, speaking so suddenly Miko jumped with a start. She turned and saw the same heavyset man wearing the Yankee jacket who had bumped into her earlier. He was glaring at her. “Yah know, there’s a stairway if this thing’s too hard for you to manage.”