Southern Fried Sushi (9 page)

“Welcome to Bible Today,” said the announcer. “We’re glad you’re listening.”

Great. Sunday in the Bible Belt. And apparently Bible Today had forgotten to pay whoever was supposed to come up with catchy titles.

A bunch of sermons hardly piqued my interest, but my eyes were glazing. I rubbed them with the back of my hand, yawning again. I needed something, anything, to keep me awake.

“When you rely on yourself and your own abilities to accomplish everything in your life, some might call that self-confidence,” the kind-voiced man was saying. “But in 2 Corinthians, Paul writes that our sufficiency is not from us, but from God.

“Why did God create us then? To know Him and be known by Him. To give Him glory. We deserve death—the wage we earned for our sins, says the Bible—so He sent His Son Jesus to die in our place and give us eternal life.

“God urges us to call on His name and be saved. ‘Choose life!’ He says. ‘I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live and that you may love the Lord your God.’

“And because of Jesus, we can now cry out like the Psalmist, ‘I will not die but live, and will proclaim what the Lord has done!’ “

The message poured out before I could stop it. My hands tightened angrily on the steering wheel, and I swerved, whacking at the radio button.

“But have you chosen life through Jesus Christ, the sinless Son of God? Or are you following your own way and believing that you, and you alone—”

I finally jammed the button off. Jerked the steering wheel back and calmed my breath, staring angrily at the desolate yellowlines stretched out on endless asphalt. Maybe it was better to fall asleep and plow into the guardrail than spend my first few hours in Virginia getting a lecture.

Nobody could tell me I hadn’t earned my job or my good standing. I’d received my academic scholarship at Cornell fair and square, night after night of endless studying. After all, what else could I do? Stay at home with Mom and listen to her rant about aliens?

I’d worked hard to pay my bills, unlike my richie-rich friends who bought Mont Blanc watches for Christmas presents and traveled to Europe for spring break.

I, Shiloh P. Jacobs, had done it. Without help from any supernatural source. Don’t tell me I need God or any other crutch to give the credit to! I fumed, knuckles still rigid on the wheel. I deserve my success, and yes, Carlos, my Louis Vuitton scarves!

My cell phone rang, and I hastily stuffed my Bluetooth in my ear. “Carlos?”

“Ro-chan!” Relief poured through me at the sound of Kyoko’s voice, even far away and crackly. “Where are you?”

“On the way from Richmond to Staunton.”

“Lots of traffic?”

“Not a soul. Sunday noon, so everybody’s at church I guess.” I made a face.

“Are you all right? Do you need anything?”

“I’m fine, Kyoko. Really. I just need to get to the hotel and eat something and sleep. I’ll feel more … normal.” I tried to rub sleep from my eyes.

“You? Normal?” Kyoko snickered. Then her voice abruptly sobered. “The … uh … service is tomorrow?”

My grin faded. “Yeah. I’ll find out more when I get there.”

“So what’s Virginia like?”

“I have no idea. So far … flat. Lots of trees.” I peered out my windows. “And deer-crossing signs.”

“Good weather?” “Yep.”

“Hmm. Good.” Kyoko wouldn’t say it, but I could hear the worry in her voice. “You really doing all right, Ro?”

“I am. Really. And thanks for everything, Kyoko. You’ve been great. You’ve helped me so much.” Nothing would make Kyoko flee faster than heartfelt praise, but I said it anyway. Thought briefly of Hachiko the dog, perched on the edge of Shibuya station.

“Yeah, well … I’d better let you drive. Call me when you get checked in, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks again.”

“Stop thanking me. You’re getting on my nerves.” “Sorry.” I bit back a smile. “By the way, has Carlos maybe … called you? To check on me?”

“Carlos?” she snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ro. Why, you mean he hasn’t …?”

I bit my lip. “He’s probably just busy.” “Ahem. Well. Don’t get run over by any turkey trucks.” She’d actually been reading up on western Virginia. “Funny.” “I try. Well, bye.”

“Matta.” The Japanese short form for “see you,” which is different from “good-bye” (
sayonara)
.

By the time I reached the Best Western hotel in Staunton, I could hardly move my legs. The water and ham biscuit I’d bought at the run-down, Podunk gas station just past Afton Mountain had dissipated hours ago. The one with the ticking NASCAR clock, cowboy-hatted patrons, and unintelligible saleswoman. Sheesh.

“Hi there!” said the desk clerk a little too brightly. I must have looked tired because she gave me a sympathetic look. “Long

trip?”

“From Japan.” The lobby, decorated in a country-ish pattern of florals and cranberry colors, smelled distinctly of swimming pool and coffee.

“All the way from Japan!” Her eyes popped as she took my credit card.
“PATTY,”
read her name tag. She really did look like a friendly Peppermint Patty from the Peanuts comic strip with her honey-brown bangs and freckles. Before long she’d start calling me “Chuck.”

“Well, what brings you here?” She pushed buttons and printed out stuff as we talked.

I winced. Why did everyone have to ask me that? “Funeral.”

“Oh dear. I’m sorry. I hope not anyone in your immediate family.”

“Well, yes, I’m afraid so.”

“I’m so sorry.” Patty finished putting together my information, using a gentler tone of voice. “Well, I hope you enjoy your stay. There’s a coffeemaker in your room, and …”

I nodded, not hearing anything. Patty handed me the key. “Is there any place to run around here?” I yawned, hoping I’d remembered to pack my tennis shoes.

“Not really.” Patty hesitated. “I guess you could follow the parking lot up to Cracker Barrel or the other way past Mrs. Rowe’s.”

“Where?”

“That red restaurant.” She pointed out the window.

“Oh.” I turned to look. “What’s their food like?”

“Lands! People come from all over just to eat there. It’s been in business since 1947. She died a few years back though. It’s a bit different, they say, but still really good.”

“She?”

“Mrs. Rowe.”

“Oh. Any recommendations?”

“Breakfast. Everybody loves the pecan rolls. And then there’s her daily specials, like fried ham and fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy.”

“Do they have anything not fried?” I tried to keep back a smile. I’d heard lots about the South. Some places even fried weird stuff, like candy bars and dill pickles, which were never meant for the deep fryer.

“‘Course they do. They’ve got the best barbecued pork sandwiches. And spoon bread and collards. And lands, the pies! My favorite’s coconut cream.”

“Spoon bread? Collards?” I didn’t understand half of what Patty just said.

Patty smiled. “You’re not from here, are you?”

“If you mean Staunton, no.” Thank goodness for that!

“Well. You’ve got to try them. And then there’s the steakhouse and a Cracker Barrel up on the hill with the best dumplings and corn muffins you’ve ever tasted.”

“Probably the only ones I’ve ever tasted.” Redneck food heaven! Here I come.

“Knock yourself out.” Patty grinned.

I wheeled my stuff up to my room, neat and decorated with similar cranberry colors, and dumped my suitcases.

This room would function as my home for the next week, so I’d better get used to it. I took off my boots at the door and pulled a pair of Japanese slippers from my suitcase. Padded into the room.

First things first. I turned past the hair-dye ticks in my notebook, which I’d intended to use to prove a point about Western influence on Asian culture, and found a fresh page.

Southern Speak, I wrote at the top. And then, “Lands!”—exclamation; “these parts”—around here, when referring to Southern localities. Then I divided a page into columns and wrote, Southern Foods: Fried and Nonfried. Not that I minded partaking of either.

Tapped my pencil against my chin, wondering how long it would take me to fill up the Fried column. Five bucks said after one dinner at Mrs. Rowe’s.

I changed into a soft little dress, one of the most comfortable things I owned, and sandals. Pinned my hair up. Lay across the bed to stretch my back and then glanced reluctantly at the clock, figuring I’d better call Faye What’s-her-name.

I reached for the phone and punched the buttons without getting up, and she answered. She called me honey, although her accent didn’t hurt my ears like the gas station lady’s where I’d bought lunch, and asked if she could meet me for dinner.

I started to say no then sighed and heard myself saying yes. Why not?

“Mrs. Whatever is next door. I’m worn out.”

“Good thinkin’, doll! I was jest gonna suggest it. I’ll bring the key to yer mom’s house, some paperwork, and other things. Unless you’d like to do all that later.”

“Maybe later.” I rubbed my eyes. “But dinner sounds good. If I can stay awake.”

“Shore, sweetie. Whenever you’re ready, jest let me know, and I’ll give ya the keys. Then you can see her house and go through her things whenever you like.”

I felt like a criminal the way she said it, like I was riffling through someone else’s pockets.

“So I’ll meet ya in the lobby in half an hour, okay, sugar? Call my cell phone if ya need anything.”

I wrote down her number and hung up. Faye seemed so sweet. A shame we had to meet over the ruins of my mom’s life, although I had an inkling she’d fill up my “Southern Speak” journal in a minute.

I guessed Faye before she introduced herself. Late fifties, I figured, with a sweet face. Glasses. Soft, sandy-gray hair curled in a shoulder-length style that made her look young. Cute. I smiled in spite of myself.

“You must be Faye. I’m Shiloh Jacobs.”

She took my hand, which I’d crisply stuck out in an overly businesslike manner, and then hugged me. I awkwardly put my hand away and hugged her back.

“I’m Faye. So pleased ta meet ya.” She looked me over then gave me a sort of shy smile, patting the side of my head. “You do look a little like yer mom. Yer pretty eyes, mainly, with all them gorgeous colors.”

“Yeah. My eyes are the only thing though. I don’t look much like either Mom or Dad.” Thankfully. I didn’t mean to think that, but it swelled up against my will. The less I had of them in my life, the better.

“Hungry?”

“Very.”

“Let’s go then. We can talk on the way.”

We fell into step side by side. Faye smelled of something sweet, like violets. A scent older than I would wear, but becoming on her. “So how do you know Mom?”

“From church.”

“Church?” I tripped over a patch in the sidewalk. “You’re kidding. Mom went to church?” I tried to cover the derision in my voice with surprise.

Faye didn’t seem to notice. “Yes, sweetie. She did. She went there for about two and a half years before she passed away.”

I cleared my throat to keep from saying something rude. “Well. That’s a surprise.”

The evening whispered soft and indigo. I didn’t need the sweater I’d brought just in case.

“Is it?” I couldn’t tell if Faye was genuinely surprised or if she wanted to ply me for more information.

“You know Mom had … well, issues, right?” My voice sounded harsh against the soft, humid evening and clumps of fragrant trees.

“I do. She went to counseling for a long, long time, so she told me, to work out some a them issues. And … well, doll, Ihave to ask ya. How much of this do ya really want to know?” Her eyes shone sober and blue.

I swallowed hard, not sure how to respond. I almost preferred to live in my make-believe world, where no information was good information. I could fill in the blanks as I pleased.

But something inside insisted, despite my misgivings.

“None of it. But I need to. I should want to. Tell me everything.”

Faye put an arm around my shoulders in a tight hug, and I didn’t pull away. “Well then, sugar, let’s talk.”

M
rs. Rowe’s gleamed with red paint, barn-like and welcoming. From the sound of voices and clinking glasses, the dinner crowd had already beaten us to the tables. But we didn’t have to wait long. A young hostess seated us, looking not yet out of high school, and we picked up our menus.