If You Follow Me (10 page)

 

It's raining this afternoon and Carolyn faxes to ask for a ride home, addressing her fax to Joe and me both, so I go with him to pick her up. She sits in the middle, the three of us pressed hip to hip in his truck's tiny cab. Every time he shifts, his fist rubs against her knee and I feel the friction. He suggests that we all drive up to Wajima, a fishing town at the tip of the peninsula, and I remind him that we have to go to the faculty party.

“I think I might skip it,” he says. “Things are a bit dodgy with Noriko.”

“You seem pretty comfortable together,” I argue.

“Do you know she didn't even bother telling me she got engaged? I had to learn about it from Hiro.”

“That's terrible,” Carolyn says.

“The worst part is what he said. He explained to me that at the ripe age of twenty-seven, Noriko is getting up there. If she doesn't marry soon, she might miss her chance. ‘If you don't have this intention in your mind,' he said, ‘you had better step to the side.'”

“Unbelievable,” Carolyn says. “That is so sexist.”

“Maybe he's just looking out for her,” I argue.

“Come on,” Carolyn scoff s. “She's old enough to be an old maid but she can't make her own dating decisions?”

“I reckon it's for the best,” Joe says. “Noriko is a sweet girl and all, but I need someone who can stand up for herself. A partner.”

I try to catch Carolyn's eye. When we got together, she made
me promise never to call her my partner. Partners were in business together. We were lovers. It really bothered Carolyn when straight people used this term “partner,” to seem hip and inconventional.

“I'll go for a drive with you,” she says. “I don't want to go home.”

“Miyoshi-sensei is going to be disappointed,” I tell Joe. “He was counting on singing a duet with you.”

“I'm sure he'd rather duet with you,” Joe says.

“What do you mean?”

“You should hear what the other teachers have been saying.”

“What have they been saying?” Carolyn asks.

“Miyoshi-sensei is always passing her secret notes. Everyone thinks they're love notes. They keep asking me whether the feeling is mutual.”

“That's ridiculous,” I scoff.

“Don't lie, pet,” Joe says. “I was right there when he gave you one this morning. You read it all quiet like, blushing even…”

“That was no love note,” I say.

“So what was it?” Carolyn asks, looking at me for the first time all afternoon.

“It was nothing,” I say.

Let her be the jealous one for a change.

taoreru:
(
V
.)
to fall; to collapse

I
nside the lobby of Shika's Royal Hotel, a carpet patterned with purple and gold diamonds stretches from wall to wall. Chandeliers throw puzzles of light on the black lacquer bar, and Japanese women in French maid costumes pad in eyelet lace slippers, balancing trays of beer bottles and sake. One of them approaches me and bows.

“Miss Marina?” she says.

“Hai
.”

She reaches into the pocket of her apron and hands me a note written on hotel letterhead in Miyoshi-sensei's too familiar linked cursive.

I am naked with my colleagues. We sit on pink plastic stools at the low showers that surround the black slate tub. One by one, the other women finish rinsing off, stand up and ease into the bath. For the third time, I pump soap into my hands and fleece my body with suds until I'm almost decent. I am trying not to think of the tattoo of an anchor on my breast, or how large my ass feels sticking out behind me on this stool. I am trying not to think about dusk falling over town, or the refrigerator about to fall by the river. I wonder if Miyoshi-sensei told the other teachers what I did, whether he complains in Japanese about my inability to follow the rules, his heavy burden.

I hesitate at the edge of the tub, cowering behind a tiny towel smaller than most dish cloths. My colleagues look up and smile in
vitingly. The elderly history teacher pats the surface of the steaming water. The school secretary makes a satisfied
mmm
sound. Rub-a-dub-dub, twelve ladies in a tub. I drop my towel and plunge into the scalding bath, but my breasts bob to the surface, two pink buoys.

Noriko, who has been soaking in the cold tub on the deck, walks in through the sliding glass doors and toward the bath on the pads of her toes. Steam rises off her skin. She is slightly, charmingly, bowlegged, so thin that her pelvis is visible beneath her skin, jutting out like the top of a heart. I remember the new bride on display in her glass van, surrounded by possessions. That woman seemed so vulnerable, whereas Noriko looks perfectly at ease. She slides into the bath next to me, points at my anchor tattoo and says, “
sekushii
.” Sexy. When my nipple stiffens (only reflexively!) I start to apologize but she says “
sekushii
” again and all of the teachers let out ripples of laughter. Tension melts in the steam. “
Ookiisugi
,” I say, cupping my breasts in both hands. Too big. She shakes her head and says, “
sekushi-sugi
.” Too sexy.

The sound of water rushing into water is nice. I slide forward, slip under the surface and let the bath fill my ears, push against my eyelids. I open my mouth and taste a sip. It's a little salty, this water we're all steeping in, this broth of us. After a while, my fingertips start to feel like rubber, wrinkly and numb. When I touch my own skin, I have the gorgeous illusion of someone else, someone new, touching me for the first time. I don't want to get out. I don't want to face Miyoshi-sensei, to have to apologize yet again. But eventually the other women stand up, towel off and get dressed in the hotel
yukata
, cotton kimonos patterned with exploding, hot pink fireworks. Noriko calls my name, tells me that it's time for the banquet. To my surprise, the
yukata
fits me. Noriko ties my sash in a pretty bow and the other female teachers tell me that I look very beautiful, very
Japanese, that I'm sure to break hearts. At least I think that's what they're saying. All I know is they're softening up to me, and I have to say, it feels good.

 

There are no tables or chairs in the hotel banquet hall, just two rows of cushions in front of lacquer trays spaced far enough apart to make conversation awkward. Most of the teachers are already kneeling and eating. The sound of chopsticks scraping dishes and glasses clinking fills the room. I am trying to figure out where I should sit when Miyoshi-sensei beckons me over.

“Mari-chan,” he says, “I know you don't like beef, so I ordered tofu for you.”

“Miyoshi-sensei,” I say, “I got your note.
Gomen nasai. Shitsureishimashita. Sumimasen.
” I'm sorry. I have committed a rude. Forgive me.

“Not tonight.” He holds up a hand. “This is
enkai.
A party is no time to sing the
gomi
blues.” I laugh and he fills my glass with beer. “Japanese
enkai
is a rare and precious chance to take off the
tatamae
. The work face. And show the
honmae
.”

“The
honmae
?” I repeat.

“The true face. For tonight, I am not Miyoshi-sensei. I am just Hiro.”

“Hiro,” I say. “My superhero.” We both laugh.

“When you drink,” he says, “you become red face.”

“You should talk,” I say.

“I should talk about what?”

“Nothing.” I laugh again. “‘You should talk' is just an expression. It means that whatever you say about me is also true of you.”

“Yes,” he says. “We are alike in many ways.”

“Really?” I say. “You think so? Like what?”

“We both want to fit,” he says, “but we also want to be
yuniku.
Unique. We want to be liked. We want things to be smooth. But we don't like to follow rules.”

“You
don't like to follow rules?” I can't help teasing him.

“I know,” he says, “to you I probably seem like typical Japanese. But to most people here I seem…oppositional. I don't like to do a thing only because everyone else does this thing. I don't enjoy hostess bar or package tour of Hawaii. I don't give fifty dollar melon present, or buy designer label goods. I can take a compliment and I can speak directly. Well, sometimes.” I'm about to tell him that he's right when he grabs my wrist, right before I refill my glass with beer. “You should not pour your own drink,” he says, and then he grins. “Maybe I am not a
typical
Japanese, but I am still Japanese,
ne
?”

He winks as he fills my glass. I've never noticed his dimples before. They're not pinpricks but slits, vertical lines that could hold dimes. There's something different about him tonight. He looks so much more relaxed. At ease. It's the
yukata
, I think. The men's robe is identical to the one I'm wearing only patterned with blue fireworks. It suits him, accentuates the width of his shoulders, shows off his narrow hips. The triangle of golden, hairless skin at his chest is faintly shining with sweat. Instead of being styled back in its usual pompadour, his hair is damp and falling in his eyes, making him look younger, roughed up around the edges. He taps a cigarette out of his pack and lights it with his Zippo.

“Imagine,” I say, pointing at the word engraved on the silver.

“It was university graduation gift from my father.”

“Is he a Beatles fan?”

“No. He only listens to Japanese music.
Enka
, you know? It's like country. He used to sing it. He would perform at festivals all over Japan. He had a wonderful voice.”

“Is he doing any better?” I ask.

“Not really. He is receiving radiation treatment, but odds of recovery are not good.”

“I'm so sorry,” I say. “That must be really hard for you.”

“Thank you.” He pauses, then says, “When did your father die?”

“A little over a year ago.” I hold my breath, again waiting for him to ask how.

“You must still feel a great lack,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “Sometimes I still forget.” I stop myself from finishing the sentence. Forget that he's dead? Forget to miss him?

“I understand,” he says. “Sometimes I forget that my father lost his voice. I ask him a question and then I remember. He does not like mechanical voice box. He feels shame to sound like a robot. He prefers to write on a notepad. Sometimes I write back to him instead of speaking. It feels more natural. Maybe this is why I write letters to you.”

“That makes sense,” I say, eyeing his cigarette.

“Probably you wonder why I smoke when my father has cancer.”

“No,” I say. “I was wondering if you had an extra.”

“Sorry, but this was my last one.” He crumples up his pack. “I smoke too much. I want to quit, but it's hard to give up bad manners.”

“Tell me about it,” I say.

“Well,” he begins, “I began smoking when I was eighteen—”

“It's another expression,” I say, laughing. “It means I know exactly how you feel.”

“Ah.” He takes a drag, and then holds his half-smoked cigarette out to me. The filter is damp, moist from his lips. Other teachers watch as I inhale, then pass it back to him. He takes another drag and passes it back to me. A waitress moves from tray to tray, pouring shots of whiskey, and I accept this too. I am saying yes to everything
tonight. Another waitress wheels in a karaoke machine and dims the lights.

“Hiro!” someone calls, and before long everyone is chanting his name.

“Mari-chan,” he says, grinning at me, “Shall we duet?”

I get up and follow him to the stage, struggling to walk in a straight line. He types in the number for an Elvis song. The video shows a line of Samoan men in grass skirts dancing a hula. “How inappropriate,” he says, and we both laugh. I barely know this song, but Hiro leads with his velvety tenor and is easy to follow. In the first verse we stand stiffly, side by side, shoulders touching, peering at the screen. But as we launch into the chorus we loosen up. The teachers are whistling, fingers in their mouths. On the second verse we pivot and gaze into each other's eyes.

Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?

He improvises a harmony, I manage to hold the tune, and the teachers cheer wildly. We are good and we know it. We are Ike and Tina, Sonny and Cher. We own the room. At the end of the song we turn back to back, shoulders pressed together. As the backs of our heads touch, I realize that we are exactly the same height. Only when the music cuts off, when I suddenly feel a little silly gripping my microphone with dramatically pale knuckles, do I realize that the entire faculty is not just smiling at us but smiling knowingly. On-screen, a rollerblading couple spins around and around, then collapses into each other's arms.

“Sekushii!
” Noriko calls out, wolf-whistling.

“I need some air,” I say.

“You are not so strong for beer,” he says. “I had better drive you home.”

“That's okay,” I say. “I can walk.”

“You are my job,” he says.

“I am not your job,” I say.

“No,” he says. “You are my friend.”

 

I'm still wearing the Royal Hotel
yukata
as I follow him across the parking lot. Cold air fills the cotton and the sleeves billow like sails. When he starts his car, the same Elvis Presley song pumps at top volume from the speakers.
Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?
He must have been practicing, getting ready for tonight. For how long? He cracks the windows and the icy wind whistles through the car. He drives fast, like the boys I used to date, as if driving were a competitive sport, a race to be won. He speeds past the conveyor belt sushi restaurant, the 7–Eleven, the Mister Donuts, turns onto the road leading up to our house, and drives past it, braking in front of the stairs that lead up to the riverbank.

“Now I see for myself,” he says.

And there it is, the refrigerator, illuminated by his headlights, standing like the lone surviving relic of the house that once contained it. I get ready to launch into another round of apologies, but before I can start he says, “Mari-chan, do you think we can see this refrigerator from the moon?” He laughs, and I laugh too. “From the moon,” he says. “From the moon!” For some reason, these words get funnier with each repetition. Soon I am begging him to stop so I can catch my breath. At last he does, and in the silence I hear geese bark at each other from either side of the river. I shift in my seat, uncross my legs and feel the night air fill me up. I turn to study his profile: one dimple, half a smile.

On impulse, I reach out and touch his cheek. My hand follows the curve of his jaw, slides beneath his
yukata
and settles on his chest. I had forgotten how hard a man's chest is, how unyielding. I feel his heart down there, barred by his ribs, sprinting forward, match
ing mine stride for stride. I rub his skin, caress his nipple with my thumb. He turns to face me and I kiss him. His lips are cool. He keeps his tongue to himself and his eyes open. We both do, looking at each other like tourists from different countries, both visiting the same place for the first time. When we blink, our lashes brush. When we breathe, we breathe into each other. We hold that kiss—pure pressure and breath—for a full minute, maybe more. Then he pulls back, presses a fist to his lips, returns his hands to the steering wheel. “I guess I should go,” I say, and he nods. I fumble for the latch, turning around to look at him once more. He stays there, parked in front of our house with his engine running, long after I've climbed upstairs and under the covers, waiting for his headlights to sweep past.