Southern Fried Sushi (20 page)

I blanched. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to pay anything,” she whispered. “Adam told us about your mom. Bobbie’s daughter goes to the Virginia School for the Deaf and Blind. We’re real sorry about what happened.”

I tried to find my voice. “So Bobbie knew my mom?”

“Not directly. But she knew who she was, and … well, it’s our way of saying thank you for your mom’s service.”

Something prickled behind my eyes. But I stood there dry-eyed, fumbling with the pen. Shiloh P. Jacobs does not cry.

I stared at the blank sheet, listing night after night with comp stamped by it. Thought of how I’d given Bobbie a piece of my mind about the train and the Internet. Thought of Faye taking me home, of Becky coming to meet me at Jerusalem Chapel, of Adam buying me a sandwich from Mrs. Rowe’s.

Giving seemed to be so natural here, like the summer air outside. I don’t think I’d ever been the recipient of so much giving.

“Wow.” I closed my mouth. “Thank you, Patty. Really. Idon’t know what to say.”

“It’s no problem. I just hope things go better for you. We all do.”

You and me both. I thanked Patty and wheeled my suitcase over to the lobby to wait for Faye.

“Well, farewell for now.” I tucked the cell phone stoically under my chin and plopped in an armchair. “I’m going to Mom’s.”

Kyoko sighed. “I wish I knew what to say, Ro-chan,” she replied, sounding depressed. “The office isn’t the same without you. I even miss your dumb thousand-dollar scarves.”

Coming from Kyoko, I should take it as a compliment. “Domo,” I said hesitantly. “Thanks. I miss you, too. A lot. I wish I’d never left. Staunton doesn’t even have a Japanese restaurant.”

“No sushi?”

“None. And if there was, I probably wouldn’t want to eat it.”

“Of course not! It’d be possum or something.”

“And deep fried.”

We chuckled. “Subway?”

“Kyoko. There isn’t even a bus system.”

Silence stretched out.

“I know, I know. It’s my fault.” I kicked a spot on the rug miserably. “And … I guess this means good-bye.”

“You’ve got a journalism visa through AP,” Kyoko groaned. “Not good. I could hack something, but it’s risky.”

“You’d have to hack extra cash in my bank account, too.”

“I’ll give you a loan! You can stay with me!” she offered compassionately. “Really, Ro-chan, if it’ll help.”

“Thanks, Kyoko. I really appreciate it. But …”

“I know. Impossible.” Legal Kyoko knew the system better than I did. “Have you talked to Dave? Kissed his feet? Begged him to come back and be the office staple cleaner?”

“Kyoko. You know Dave.”

“Unfortunately, I do know Dave.” She sighed again. “And that means Nora will keep bothering me while you send me postcards from Podunk-ville until you move back to New York. Although”—I could hear her smile. It was uncanny—”I did enjoy seeing Nora yesterday, I have to say.”

Something about hacking Nora’s files…? “You didn’t!”

“Didn’t what?” I couldn’t see her, but I knew Kyoko was pulling the innocent act, studying her nails in the light of her Cheshire-Cat grin.

“Talk about a sweeeeeet reward,” she purred. “She went ballistic! Had the tech guys on their knees taking apart her computer all day long.”

“Kyoko, you’re kidding!” I gasped.

“Yeah, and Tsubasa-san, the main techie, is actually quite a hottie. I’m thinking about crashing my own files tomorrow just so he can come fix my computer, too.”

“I can’t believe you!”

“Ah.” She grunted. “Nora’s fine. She didn’t lose anything major. Her story on public transportation stank anyway—what she’d written of it. I don’t know how she even works at AP. Her parents must have paid Dave off.”

“Did you … um … do anything to Carlos’s Azuki page?”

Kyoko’s response horrified and intrigued me. “See for yourself. Oh, and he’d blocked you, but I took the liberty of adding you back to his friend list.” She snickered. “Hope he doesn’t mind.”

I grabbed my laptop, and thanks to wireless Internet—which was finally working—click-click-clicked to Carlos’s page.

Kyoko, in her infinite sneaky wisdom, had changed his nationality from Argentina to Brazil.

My jaw dropped. Not only had she plastered his page with iconic samba and grinning Brazilian soccer star photos, but every post, as far as I could see, was absolutely scandalous—especially for an Argentinian nationalist: “I LOVE BRAZIL!” and,
“Osbrasileiros são os melhores!
“ (“Brazilians are the best!”) and, “I’m thinking of changing my citizenship to a real country.”

Kyoko had even managed to Photoshop a little green, yellow, and blue flag into his profile picture.

“How did you write in Portuguese like a Brazilian?” I tried to get air back in my lungs, still scrolling.

He hasn’t seen it yet. I stopped short at a huge photo of the triumphant Brazilian soccer team hoisting a World Cup trophy. Blue-and-white-clad Argentinians weeping in the background.
Ooo, Kyoko! You’ve outdone yourself
.

“Easy. Internet translator. I signed him up for some mailing lists and groups and stuff, too.”

I kept my mouth shut. If I got on her bad side, no telling what she’d do to me.

I could hardly speak, still gawking at that trophy shot. Trying to imagine Carlos’s furious reaction. “You’re really good at this payback stuff.”

“Yeah. You should see Mia’s page.” She preened and then put the compliment aside. “So you decided not to pawn your scarves and stay at Ye Olde Redneck Hotel indefinitely?”

“I guess not.” I closed Azuki. “It’s temporary of course—just until I find somewhere else to live.”

Kyoko was surprisingly understanding. “Why not? Free rent. Just don’t put a giant satellite dish out back and start buying TV dinners.”

“I’ll have you know I have fond memories of TV dinners. Especially the Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes. They were so wonderfully rectangular.”

“I heard if you leave them out of the refrigerator for weeks they won’t spoil. Too many preservatives. Sounds like embalming, if you ask me.”

I turned green. “Thanks, Kyoko. I’ll keep that in mind next time I buy pickled pig’s feet.”

“Pickled what?! Send me a picture.”

“I promise, Kyoko, you don’t want to see it wobbling around in the jar.”

“I’ve seen worse here at the fish market, and now I’m curious. Send it!”

“Ugh. And you say I’m weird.” Kyoko seriously needed help. “Just wait until I upload the photos from my cell phone.” “Like … belt buckles? Gun racks?”

“Confederate flags. Jacked-up trucks. Corn soaked in lye. The works.”

Kyoko hmm-ed. “Hey, what’s that sport where people watch cars drive around a track?” “NASCAR?”

“Do you know any of the drivers?”

“Well, there’s Jeff Gordon, and Tim said something about this guy named Vic—”

“Okay, Ro-chan, that was a TEST!” she roared, startling me. “You were supposed to say, ‘No, what’s that?’ You’re scaring me now. GET OUT OF VIRGINIA, Ro! You’ve been there too long already!”

I glanced up miserably. “There’s Faye.” “Any last words?”

“Funny. How about, ‘Forgive me, Dave?’“ “Do you want me to repeat his response?” “Forget it.” I closed my laptop. “I’ll call you.” “Good. If they know what phones are out in the sticks.”

H
ow ya doin’? I’m here already! Brought reinforcements.”

I heard Becky’s cheery voice on my cell phone as we turned into Crawford Manor. “Huh?”

“What, ya thought we was gonna jest dump ya here all by yerself?”

Faye parked in Mom’s driveway, and sure enough, Becky’s green sedan grinned back at me. I blinked. And Adam’s dark blue pickup? The conspirators sat on the deck, boxes on the steps.

I got out to thank them, but the sight of Mom’s empty house stopped me. Her white Honda. The brown-shingled roof. Bright and cheery roses blooming in the flower bed, as if Mom stood just in the other room like Mrs. Rowe, watering can in hand.

Fortunately Becky’s smile warmed everything as she appeared at my car door. “Ya ready for this?” She grinned, arms full of stuff. “Welcome to yer new pad! We’re gonna have a reg’lar housewarmin’ party!”

Adam clipped his hedge trimmers in anticipation.

I dug in my purse for the keys, trying to keep my voice light. “Come on in! Make yourselves at home.”

Becky turned on the radio and opened the windows, and we set to work putting the house in order. She and Faye cleaned andshined and washed, making the small house smell of crisp pine cleaner and laundry detergent while I tried not to look at Mom’s pictures.

Tina showed up with pound cake and some cute new teacups, and she spritzed water on all the houseplants. Stripped Mom’s bed and put on clean sheets. The washing machine swished and swirled to life, giving me energy I didn’t have.

“Which bedroom do ya want, honey? Yer mom’s or the spare one?”

“The spare one,” I answered quickly. “I like blue.”

“I reckoned so. The bed looks real comfortable.” She threw on fresh linens and pillowcases, dusting from top to bottom and vacuuming the pale blue-gray carpet. Got Adam to move in a chest of drawers from Mom’s room.

After boxing up Mom’s pictures and medicines and things, Faye set to work cleaning out the refrigerator and polishing the furniture with lemon cleaner. Tina drove to IGA and bought me some fresh stuff: a loaf of white bread, grits, and so on. No hominy, thankfully, or pig’s feet.

By the time Tim arrived in the evening with Jeanette, they’d all made the whole place shine. Becky found one of Mom’s funny old Statler Brothers CDs and put it on so we could all hear and laugh. Or occasionally dance, as Becky tried to do with Jeanette.

I wondered if Mom ever had friends over, ever laughed, ever danced. The smiley pictures now packed in a box suggested she

had. I was just too late to see it.

“Yer turn, wild woman!” hollered Tim, slapping down another card as we played UNO and ate surprisingly good delivery pizza. A welcome change from potato and tuna pizza back in Tokyo, or the spicy fermented kimchee cabbage version Kyoko liked. Japanese pizza was certainly nothing to write home about.

“I’m goin’! I’m goin’!” Becky threw down a Skip card, high-fiving Tim as Adam grumpily missed another turn.

I’d always thought games like UNO were stuff for third-grade slumber parties. But the lamplight and music made me feel warm, blooming, innocent in a way I hadn’t experienced in years.

“Go, Shah-loh!” Tim grabbed another slice of pizza. Outside, evening fell softly, turning sapphire over a pale sunset, all lit up with stars and the sound of crickets and cicadas. The house glowed with laughter.

Mom’s house. My house. Talk about surreal.

“Well, I gotta hit the sack,” said Jeanette, putting down her cards and kissing me on the cheek. “I’ll bring ya some ‘tater bread next week.”

“We’ll be prayin’ for ya, sugar.” Faye hugged me tight. “If ya feel like comin’ ta church on Sunday, give me a ring. Night or day, if ya need anything.”

Tim, Becky, Adam, and I lingered, watching part of a funny movie and sopping up the famous garlic-butter sauce and breadsticks that came with the pizza. I didn’t want them to leave.

“I gotta get some shut-eye,” said Becky finally, yawning and leaning against Tim. “I’m volunteerin’ at the nursery t’morrow for the church’s couple’s retreat. Too bad yer Carlos is such a knot head. He coulda come with ya.”

His name drove a painful dagger through me, but I played it off, flipping through the UNO deck. “Carlos thinks Protestants are on par with McDonald’s and Nikes. You know. Invading the beloved country.” I made a face. “Although I think he wore diapers last time he went to mass.”

“Jesus ain’t no McDonald’s,” retorted Becky, arching an eyebrow. “He ain’t no Happy Meal neither.”

“Apparently not, with all the bad things that happen in life. But I thought He’s supposed to answer prayers.” And He sure hasn’t answered mine. And I did pray as a child, years and yearsago. Before I grew hard. Cynical. Like Kyoko. “Why pray then?” I played with a stray UNO card.

Becky didn’t flinch. “If ya reckon yer gonna get a toy in every box, think again. Life ain’t all handouts, and my Jesus ain’t neither.”

Adam cleared his throat. “She means Jesus isn’t Santa Claus, Shiloh. Life throws us all kinds of things—good and bad—and just because we believe in Him doesn’t mean we get a free ride.”