Southern Fried Sushi (10 page)

“What do you recommend?” I paged through the list, hoping to find something not covered in cornmeal or lard.

“Well, I like a lot of things, sugar. This is my kinda cookin’. I like the Virginia ham with coleslaw and collards.”

“Collards again. What are those?”

“Greens. You know, cooked with ham. Ain’t you had ‘em before?”

“Nope.”

“My husband used to say they taste like grass. ‘Course he was from Montana, so what would he know? Some people like ‘em with vinegar.”

“Well, I had really salty ham for lunch, so maybe something else?”

“Fried chicken’s delicious, sweet pea, although maybe a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich would do you better after all that travelin’.” She turned over the menu. “Or broiled trout.”

Japan. Fish. Trout. “Definitely.”

“Oh, it’s delicious. If I keep thinking about, I’ll get it, too. But I want something differ’nt. Oh, and did ya know you ken get spoon bread here if they have enough?”

Now I had slurped all kinds of strange noodles in Japan and eaten sea creatures scientists probably hadn’t identified. But spoon bread? Where would that go in my “Southern Speak” journal?

“Never had it? It’s like a sorta … I dunno. Soft bread. You eat it with a spoon.”

The look on my face gave me away.

“Well, why don’t you get rolls, and I’ll get spoon bread. You can try a bit if ya like.” Faye pursed her lips. “I think I’ll go with the fried chicken. Ain’t had it in a while. Did ya choose yer vegetables?”

“I think … salad and those collard greens.” I closed my menu, still trying for a bit of adventure.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.” She winked. “Oh, and dinner’s on me.”

“Oh no. You don’t have to do that!”

“Shucks. Don’t be silly. I imagine that plane ticket wasn’t no five-dollar special, right?”

I had to smile. “Ten. With tax.”

“See? Raisin’ the rates like that. The nerve.” She gave her menu a decisive look. “What’ll you have to drink, Shiloh?”

“What’s iced tea taste like? I’ve only seen it in movies. Is it sweet?”

Faye gave me a funny look. “I thought Japanese people drank tea.”

“Well, definitely not sweet. And no ice.”

She shook her head pityingly. “Gracious. What y’all been missing!”

“I’ll try it then.”

“You won’t regret it. Oh, and don’t forget to save room for

dessert. Her pies are absolutely the best.”

It struck me as funny, and even charming, how people continued to refer to “her” as if she were alive and standing in the next room.

A waitress took our orders and brought us two tall glasses of caramel-brown tea, packed to the brim with ice. No wonder tepid-water Europeans made fun of us. In Italy you were lucky if it came room temperature.

I bobbed my head at the waitress in thanks, Japanese-style, and quickly realized no one else did that in Staunton, Virginia. Just me.

“Like yer tea?” Faye smiled across the table, not noticing my gaffe—or pretending not to.

“I do. It’s really … sweet.” But also herbal, slightly … bitter? The wedge of lemon cut the sweetness beautifully. I drank without stopping, much thirstier than I realized.

“It’s like water here. Good as anything on God’s earth.” Faye set her glass down. “So, sugar plum, let’s talk about yer mom. You seemed surprised she came ta church with me.”

“Well, yes. But then again, Mom always did try anything.” I waved it away, playing with an empty straw paper. “You just told me she went to counseling. What else do you know about her?”

Faye sighed. “She’d just had a rough time, dearie. That’s my impression. ‘Course I don’t know the whole story. I’m just sayin’ what I saw. I knew yer mom—Ellen—for about three years. She moved here some five or six years ago, I think, from North Carolina.”

I stirred my tea with my straw, feeling color creep up my face. Mom had lived in Staunton for six years, and I didn’t even know what state she lived in.

“She said she’d divorced and yer dad remarried, and ya’d gotten accepted by someplace real important and worked in Japan.” Faye unlaced her fingers and laced them again. “She’d sort of lost touch with ya over the years and felt sorry for it.”

“I can explain.” I tossed the straw paper down harshly. “I know from the outside Mom looks like this poor, mistreated soul whose family just left her. Dad was wrong, for sure. But there’s more to it than that.”

“Of course, sweetie. I know that. There’s always more than one side to ev’ry story. Ellen said it was her fault.”

I raised my head. “She did?”

“Yes. She said she only wanted to try an’ reclaim what she could. She talked about ya sometimes … how wonderful you are and how badly she’d messed up.”

“Well, she certainly did.” I snorted and looked away. “I don’t know about you, Faye, but I never had a mother growing up. And once Dad left with that Tanzania woman, I didn’t have a dad either. Not that he behaved like much of one before.

“And Mom? She was unstable—not just sad, but unstable. She cried all day and talked about suicide. Hit me sometimes. She either took depression medicine until she turned into a zombie, leaving me to take care of her, or she didn’t take it at all and went ballistic. She joined cults who swindled her out of her money and filled her head with nonsense then disappeared with them for days.”

I picked up the straw paper and twisted it so hard it snapped in half, but I didn’t stop. “She left me with drunk neighbors who tried to whip me—or worse, their creepy boyfriends who couldn’t keep their hands off me.” My cheeks flushed with anger, and I avoided Faye’s eyes. “That’s how I started sleeping at the homeless shelter because nobody would bother me.

“She couldn’t keep a job because she didn’t show up on time or just disappeared for days without calling. I just … grew up alone, raising myself and taking care of her. We got evicted all the time. I always went to bed afraid we couldn’t pay the rent and I’d have to go into a foster home or I’d come home and find her …” I dropped the straw paper and pushed it away. I’d said too much. And I was furious.

I let out my breath and tried to relax my shaking fingers, ashamed at how much I’d spouted off. What were you thinking, Shiloh P. Jacobs? I needed to be more objective. Reporter-like. The clink of glasses, light conversation, and laughter floated across the restaurant in condemnation.

Faye’s lip trembled. “I’m so sorry.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “I’m so sorry for ya, havin’ to grow up that way. It must have been awful. I can’t even imagine.”

I sipped my tea awhile before answering and forced myself to calm down. “It’s over,” I said lightly, giving a brusque shrug. “She means nothing to me.”

“So sorry.” Faye smoothed a rumpled napkin, as if wishing she could smooth my life out the same way. Well, good luck. It’s a bit late for that.

“Does what I told you about Mom surprise you?” I shook off her pity.

“Actually, no. She told me some about it.”

“She did?” My eyebrow arched skeptically. Mom always had excuses for herself.

“Not all, sugar, but a lot. Said she didn’t expect you or anybody else to come after her, but she wanted ta try an’ make something of her life while she still could.”

Hence the boxes and occasional letters she’d sent me. The weird pecan pie. As if they were supposed to make everything better. Make me forgive her. Sorry, Mom. I’m no sucker.

“Where did she work?” I changed the subject abruptly.

“At the Virginia—”

“—School for the Deaf and Blind. I knew it.”

“She told you?”

“No. I guessed. She always talked about her younger brother, Billy, and I just put two and two together. Why else would anyone come to Staunton?”

I clapped my hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …” What had I meant? “Really. No offense, please, Faye.

I’m sure it’s a great place.”

Faye looked down shyly, still smiling. “None taken, sweetie. An’ you’re right. It ain’t like people are knockin’ down our doors to get here. Kids don’t stay here much after they grow up, and why should they? Except now people are realizin’ what a beautiful place we have, without much crime and pollution, and they’re buying it up lot after lot.

“Staunton’s always been a small town. But some of us sorta like the quiet life, watching the seasons change and living where people know your name. I’m happy here. Doubt I’ll ever move. After my husband died I thought I might, but I feel closer to him here. It’s my home.”

I sighed, feeling depressed. There sure was a lot of dying in this town. The waitress poured more tea with a pretty tinkling sound into our glasses.

“I imagine you’ve seen whole worlds I cain’t even imagine, an’ still in yer young years,” said Faye a little wistfully. “I guess I’m too old for sushi, ain’t I?” She laughed.

My tongue tingled at the memory of salty soy sauce and pungent ginger. “You’ve never tried it? Where can we find sushi around here? I’ll treat you.”

Ah. Sushi. Now we were speaking my language.

“Here? Shucks. I don’t reckon Staunton’s got any.”

I blinked as if I hadn’t understood. “You’re kidding. I mean … nowhere? Not even …?”

Faye thought hard. “They had a couple a places in the past, I reckon, but they didn’t last real long. That last place got shut down.”

I stirred my ice, choking back a snarky comment.

“But if you find it, I’ll try it! You bet yer boots!”

I managed to smile back. For some reason I liked this woman, even if Staunton left … ahem … lots to be desired.

“Oh, look. I think that’s our dinner.”

The steaming tray loomed larger than I’d imagined, threatening to spill over. The waitress set in front of me a huge trout, golden-brown and crisp, along with my salad and a plate of something dark green and slimy looking.

Aha. The collard greens. I poked at them with my fork, and pink bits of ham smiled back.

“Well, here we are.” Faye smiled happily. “Do ya mind if I pray for our meal?”

I quickly put my fork down. To each his own. “Uh … sure. Go ahead.” And she took my hands.

She prayed for the food, for the hands that prepared it, and for me as I faced all the difficulties of the coming days. Then she said, “Amen.” I looked around to see people staring at us, but no. In Japan two foreign women holding hands with closed eyes would definitely attract attention.

I picked up my fork. “What’s ‘amen’? Everybody says that. What does it mean?”

“‘So let it be done.’ Something like that.”

We dug into our food. Right. Landlocked Staunton doesn’t have sushi. I poked at my golden-brown fish with a fork, hoping some redneck didn’t haul it here in his filthy bait bucket.

And the collard greens looked exactly like chopped grass, but tasted salty, hearty, meaty. From there, though, the meal went downhill. Faye’s spoon bread had a gross, spongy texture, like soggy breakfast cereal.

To cover my disgust, I excused myself and took a picture of my collard greens for Kyoko.

Faye chuckled. “You got one of them expensive pitcher phones, don’t ya?”

“Yeah.” I took a picture of Faye and asked her to take one of me with my collards. “But the TV doesn’t work. I’ve got to get it upgraded.”

“TV?” she gasped, turning my phone over. “On yer phone?”

“Sure. This model’s been out for years in Japan.”

“How do I press it ta take a pitcher? Like this? Did I do it?”

I examined her fuzzy picture. “Not bad. See? It’s a lot of fun.”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever taken pitchers with a cell phone this snazzy. I’ve seen ‘em, but I never used one.”

If I’d come here even a month ago, I could have had this conversation with Mom. The thought sobered me. I stabbed at my fish and pulled out a bone.

“Did Mom … like it here?”

“She did, sweetie. She said it ‘fed her soul.’ She loved the autumn leaves an’ the fresh air. She helped out at church a lot. We ate here sometimes, she an’ I an’ a couple a other ladies because we were all single. Or wanted ta be.” She giggled girlishly.

I looked around the restaurant with new eyes. Mom had sat at one of these tables. Sipped tea from a glass like mine. I took in the simple country paintings, the crowded tables, and waitresses handing out plates of fried chicken and mashed potatoes.

“Was she … normal?” I didn’t know how else to put it.

“She was.” Faye suddenly took my hand in hers and patted it. “She’d struggled a lot, cried sometimes, but by the time we met I think she’d found some answers for her life.

“She was a good teacher, ya know. Helped a lotta kids. Not very rewardin’ work at times, in the way we might think of rewardin’. Sometimes these kids don’t outwardly show much progress. She got tired, but she loved it. I wish you coulda met her in her better days.” Faye looked sad. “She shoulda invited ya here.”

I bristled. “I don’t think I’d have come.”

“I know, honey. But … we just never know what the Lord is up to in all a this. He has His ways, an’ He saw fit to allow her to live her life—an’ end it—the way she did.”

“Do you really believe in God like that?” I asked skeptically, poking at my collards.

“I do, sweetie. With all my heart.”

“Did my mom?”

“Toward the end, yes. Absolutely.”

So that’s what she’d meant in her random letters about finding new meaning for her life. At the time I’d wondered if she’d met a man or gotten a dog. People sometimes go overboard with animals. I heard about a woman who married a dolphin.

“Do you have children?” I pulled a Kyoko.

“No, I don’t.” Faye folded her napkin. “Mack and I … well, we couldn’t, an’ at that time it was difficult to adopt, so we didn’t. I wanted to.”

“But I thought you believe in God.” The contradiction made me grumpy. I hated contradictions and how people keep on believing them anyway. Like the Japanese housewife offering daily tea and rice to her ancestors but saying she doesn’t believe a word of it. Why not forget the whole thing and eat the rice yourself?

“I believe in Him with all my heart, honey. But that doesn’t mean we get everything we want in life. God’s ways are differ’nt. He never promised heaven on earth.”

I felt a whole bitter diatribe coming, but I pressed it down. Our conversation had slipped into directions I didn’t like.