Elly smiled.
“See you two around,” said Alicia, and returned to the Center.
“She’s an interesting person,” observed Elly.
“She’s a bookie. She runs the office pool: who’s getting engaged and when, married and when, with side bets on getting pregnant and date of birth.” They climbed the stairs to the first floor.
“And what are her odds on you?”
“She’s bet against me so far.”
Elly laughed. “In other words, you don’t date much.”
“In other words.”
They pushed through the doors and walked into the hot August afternoon. On the steps down to the sidewalk her hand brushed his. As the motion of their steps brought them together again, he opened his hand and clasped hers, a touch as sweet as a kiss.
Is Alicia betting against you, now? she wanted to ask. She had to suppress the bubbly, effervescent impulse to skip along singing: I’ve got a boyfriend, I’ve got a boyfriend.
They arrived at the crosswalk outside the Wilkinson Center and waited for the light to change. Elly leaned against him. They crossed the street and wended their way through the maze of cars crowding the Law School parking lot. She asked, “Ever been engaged?”
“No.”
“Close?”
“I dated a girl off and on last year, but it was a dead hypothetical. Alicia had no worries.”
“A dead what?”
“It’s a theory—well, rationalization—I concocted, based on the manyuniverses hypothesis: that for every decision presented to you there exists a universe where the choice you didn’t make is played out. But some decisions, I’ve concluded, have no hypothetical, no alternate universe of possibilities. There may be a fork in the road, but the road not taken was a dead end all along. Some facet of who you are, or who they are, or the basic nature of space and time, simply precluded that choice having any life of its own. The ‘what if’ is dead.”
“You’re right, it does sound like a rationalization.”
“But it’s better than fretting about the past.”
“I do my fretting in the present. My roommate Melanie is as much a busybody as Alicia, and very protective. She was my first senior companion, you see.”
They crossed Ninth. Elly said, “You’re at the Center Tuesdays and Thursdays?”
“I go there to study a lot or use the computers if I didn’t bring my laptop. I’ve got phonology mornings and Japanese lit. afternoons, Monday, Wednesday, Friday.”
“I’m taking Japanese 301, besides teaching. I know. But like I said, it’s thanks to my third-grade Japanese education.”
They stopped at number 30. Elly hitched her backpack strap higher on her shoulder. Invite him in, she thought. But then do what? Other than what she was dying to do. She said, “Walk me home tomorrow?”
He smiled. “You know where to find me.”
A long moment followed, the uncertain actors on the stage. He leaned forward and kissed her, lightly—politely—at first, and then with a growing insistence that betrayed a deeper hunger. His hands rested on her hips, her hands on his shoulders. Their lips parted. She flung her arms around his neck and raised her mouth to his once again, pressing her body against his.
Behind them Melanie said, “Ahem.”
They flew apart—the poles of the magnet suddenly reversed. With a practiced air of nonchalance Melanie strode up the steps. She opened the front door and said over her shoulder, “As you were.”
They looked at each other, grinning sheepishly like teenagers caught making out on the front porch. Connor said, “See you tomorrow.”
“Yes. Tomorrow.”
She let him go. They drew apart, reaching out till fingertips slipped from fingertips. He turned down the walk, and with a final glance, a smile, a wave, disappeared out of sight.
But hardly out of mind.
Chapter 20
An Old Man and a Car
E lly stopped at the Center the next day. Alicia was at the desk. “Connor’s back at the computers. Want me to get him?
“Not if he’s busy. Tell him I’ll come by after my office hours.”
Connor had taken Alicia’s place at the supervisor’s desk when she returned at five. He was busy with a Chinese girl.
She sat down at a table across from the counter and got out the day’s kana quizzes. At this point she could predict the distribution of grades, just as she could predict that Bradley would attempt the kanji for all the vocabulary items (even if not required) and get most of them right.
The Chinese girl left. Elly went to the counter. “Osu,” she said.
“Howdy to you too.”
She saw the delight in his eyes and her own face warmed with pleasure. “Can I come back there?”
“Is anybody waiting?”
Elly glanced around and shook her head.
“Come on down. There’s an aisle between the end of the counter and the reference bookshelf.” Elly found her way in and sat in the chair next to the desk. He asked, “How’s your class going?”
“I just finished grading the last kana quiz. Now all that’s left is finals.”
A student rushed into the Center. “Hey,” he wheezed, “how late are you guys open?”
“About forty more minutes. Sign your name on the sheet there.”
Elly got up. “I’ll wait. I’ve got kanji to study.”
Connor worked with the student till five after six. He turned the key in the lock and kicked out the doorstop. “Who’s left?” he called out.
“I am,” Eddie yelled from the computer carrels.
“Door’s locked.” He replaced the key in the desk drawer, ducked into the break room for a minute and emerged with his backpack. Elly reached out her hand and he took it.
They were leaving the Center when Alicia rushed up. “Hold the door! I assume Eddie’s in there? Hi, Elly.”
“Hi, Alicia.”
Alicia disappeared inside the Center. The door closed and locked.
The early evening sky was filled with clouds. Elly asked, “The dream you had about the samurai at the school in Kudoyama—who did you say he reminded you of?”
“Oh, you mean Pat Morita, from Karate Kid. Yeah, the next dream was even weirder. It reminded me of Soleil Rouge. Ever see that movie? A western with Charles Bronson and Toshiro Mifune.”
Elly shook her head. “Do you think it was your grandfather?”
“McKenzie? He wouldn’t be caught dead wearing cowboy boots.”
“Tell me about him, your grandfather.”
“Not much to tell, except I didn’t like him. The feeling seemed to be mutual. I can’t remember him ever calling me by name.”
“But how would you describe him?”
“A package of distilled McKenzieness.”
“Which is?” she pressed.
“A large measure of introversion. An inability to suffer fools at all, let alone gladly. Passive-aggressive to the max. Probably the product of those long winter nights on the Orkney Islands. When my parents retired, they moved to Peaks Island in Maine. As the joke in the family goes, Dad is trying to prove that a man is too an island.”
They crossed Ninth East. Elly asked, “And on the plus side?”
“A pragmatic view of the world. A minding of one’s own business. An attention to detail. And yet some growing self-awareness. I’ve watched my father fight those negatives all my life. Every generation, that McKenzieness gets a bit more diluted. Compared to his father, my dad’s an outright extrovert. Though you’d never guess it from being around him.”
They turned down the path from the sidewalk. Elly said, “Let’s go to the baseball field. Melanie’s probably with her kids.”
The field was aswarm with children. Melanie was setting up the T-Ball stand in front of home plate.
Connor said, “After Grandma died, it was like he sank into a black hole. He’d sit in the study with his headphones on, listening to his opera, tuning everything out for hours.”
“There must have been something he cared about.”
Connor agreed emphatically. “The car.”
“The car?” Elly’s attention sharpened to a fine point.
“A 1966 metallic blue Mustang GT. My Mom called it his late midlife crisis car.”
“And—”
“I don’t know. I got to ride in it two, maybe three times in my whole life, and then only because Grandma insisted. ‘Hands off the car, kid,’ was the longest sentence he ever spoke to me. He died the day after Thanksgiving, my freshman year at college. He was sitting there with his headphones on and just stopped breathing. One moment he was here, the next he wasn’t. We called 911 and the cops showed up and then the EMTs. All I could think was, Wow, just like on TV.”
He paused. “Though I suppose that says more about me than him.”
The T-Ball game got underway. Connor said, “Your roommate, she’s sort of like a sheep dog.”
“A sheep dog? Unkind!”
“In a good way. Keeping all the chaos in order.”
“Melanie’s very pretty, don’t you think?” She used the Japanese world bijin, more specific to her overall physical attractiveness.
Connor gave her an examining look and said, “You’re prettier.”
Elly stared back at him. He voiced such opinions in that unadorned McKenzie manner, as if stating that two plus two equals four. It foreclosed any reply on her part.
Chapter 21
Sammoh
C onnor asked, “How do you know when a game of T-Ball is over?” “Search me. I’ve never watched one all the way through. You hungry?
There’s some shabu-shabu in the fridge.”
Elly stopped by the dugout. “Mel, have you had dinner? We’ll warm
something up.”
Melanie checked her watch and yelled back, “We’ll be done by seventhirty at the latest.”
“I’ll leave the leftovers on the stove.”
Connor examined the gray keel of the cumulonimbus hovering above
them. “They may be calling the game a little early.”
Back at the condo they dumped their backpacks on the couch and
continued into the kitchen. She held onto his hand, refusing to let go. So
he put his arms around her and they swayed back and forth to the silent
music. She looked into his eyes and he kissed her. She encouraged him
not to stop.
Thunder rattled the windowpanes.
They both jumped. Elly laughed. “You’re right about the rain. Mel may
be home earlier than expected.”
She got the shabu-shabu while Connor tended to the rice. Ten minutes
later the front door banged closed. Melanie poked her head into the kitchen. “Look at you boring two,” she said in a faux disappointed voice. Her
hair was damp, her sweats streaked with rain.
“Yeah,” said Elly, “we already made out.”
Connor’s ears reddened. Melanie said, “If you don’t marry her soon,
she’ll become downright unbearable.”
Melanie had her there. Elly hadn’t gotten over the sophomoric pride
she took in having a boyfriend. A decade after the fact, she finally understood what had obsessed her idiot girlfriends back in junior high and high
school.
The rice was done by the time Melanie returned, her hair turbaned in a
towel. Elly set the shabu-shabu pot on a hot pad. Connor retrieved the
rice cooker.
“Well, this is domestic,” Melanie said. She gestured to Connor. “When
in doubt, fall back on patriarchy.”
He gave her a peeved look but pronounced the blessing on the food.
Dinner commenced. Melanie asked, “So, Connor, where are you from?” “New York. Though I guess I’m from Maine now. My parents moved
after I got back from my mission.”
“How long have you two known each other?”
Connor and Elly exchanged glances. Connor said tentatively, “Three
months. Almost four.”
Elly nodded. It was true enough. Melanie gave her an accusing glance.
“You were on your mission four months ago.”
“Connor was in Osaka. He was working for my Uncle Nobuo.” “When did you ever find the time to date?”
“Ha! Missionaries don’t date.”
“I’ve known a few.”
“With Susan Eliason as my companion?”
“Good point. I take it you exchanged the occasional pleasantries?” They both shrugged, caught the spark in each other’s eyes at the same
time and smiled. Melanie fumed, “No private moments at the table.” “Yes, Mel,” Elly said, bowing her head with exaggerated penitence.
The thunderstorms swept north, leaving the darkening sky aglitter with stars. The sidewalks were damp with rain.
Elly asked, “I can’t imagine you ever dating on your mission.” “No, but I ended up with a few companions who had.”
“Really? I was kidding.”
“I guess the mission president believed I exuded some sort of fraternization-killing mood.”
“Not anymore.” And he proved her point, cupping her face in his hands and pressing his lips against hers. The moist, warm connection made her heart jump. She knew she could do much more than kiss him, and he could do much more than hold her in his arms.
“What time are you going to school tomorrow?”
“I have a class at nine. I’ll be by about eight-thirty.”
“Okay. Eight-thirty.”
He insisted on walking her to her door. She welcomed another chance
to kiss him good night. Since Tanabata, since that breathtaking night, they hadn’t made love in their dreams. Elly suspected they would not, unless their perverse guardian angels grew impatient with the course of their courtship. Still, she hated waking up alone. The moments of transition between shared sleep and the lonely darkness of her bedroom had become as unbearable as the guilt and confusion that had haunted her before.
She’d always believed herself to be a “together” person. Susan Eliason had taught her differently. Connor had taught her differently. Reluctant in wrath, her great-great-grandfather had lectured his volatile daughters. Oh women were the samurai in the family, and Elly was her mother’s daughter. Even Aunt Wanda said so. That meant her mother probably felt about her father the same way Elly did about Connor—all those roiling emotions so tightly contained. She’d have to consider her mother in a whole new light.
She’d told Melanie that she didn’t love Connor. She didn’t know what it meant to love another person like that. But did she ever get infatuation. Did she ever get being in love. She loved kissing him—in their dreams she’d loved making love. It must be the sublimation catching up with her—all the boys she’d never dated, all the boys that never copped a feel, all the boys she’d never necked with.
Melanie walked into the kitchen after her morning jog. “Connor seems like a nice boy.”
“I’m glad you approve.” Elly asked, “Do you know who Pat Morita is? Some nisei actor.” She paused to remember, “Karate Kid.”
“In the movie? He’s the super at the apartment complex where Ralph Macchio and his mom live. Ralphie’s getting picked on by the neighborhood bullies, but it turns out that Pat Morita is this incredible martial arts sensei. He teaches Ralphie how to kick butt by having him wash his cars. Wax on, wax off, as your uncle likes to say.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Elly. “Best Kid. That’s the title in Japan.”
“I didn’t think your pop culture IQ was that lacking. This is important how?”
“Yeah, he does look like my great-great-grandfather. Thanks, Mel. This really helps.” She bounced to her feet and scampered up the stairs.
“How? How does it help?” Melanie shouted after her, “You’re getting to be an irritating person to have around, Elly Packard!”
Connor was on time. Elly ran out the fro
nt door and into his arms before he rang the bell. Her eyes brimmed with excitement. “I know who he looks like. Pat Morita, I mean. Sammoh!”
“The guy in the Hong Kong action movies?” “No, Sametaroh Oh. My great-great-grandfather. My brother Sam was named after him.”
“Sametaroh Oh.”
“Last name usually goes first—the American contingent must have come up with it—but yes. And he does look like Pat Morita. See, it makes sense. If your great-great-grandfather got together with my great-greatgrandfather—”
“It makes sense?”
She playfully whacked him on the shoulder. “As much sense as anything. What classes do you have?”
“Phonology at nine, Japanese lit. at two. How about you?”
“Yesterday was the last day of class for 301. I have my kids at two and that’s it.”
She escorted him to the JKHB. Kusanagi Sensei came down the hallway from the north wing staircase. “Hello, Elly.”
“Auntie,” Elly replied, with a polite nod. Kusanagi Sensei continued into the classroom. “Oh Sensei’s sister-in-law,” she explained in a loud whisper. The bell rang. “I’ll be at the library, fourth floor.”
She left him with a brief, sweet kiss. For the first time in a long time, he gave serious thought to skipping class.
By “fourth floor” Elly meant the Asian collection. She was filling out a form when he arrived. “C’mon,” she said, jumping to her feet.
She led him through the stacks to Special Collections and handed in the form. Five minutes later, the librarian emerged from a side door with a boxed set of books. Elly extracted the first book in the set and handed it to Connor.
It was hardbound in black leather, a hundred pages or so. Connor flipped to the title page. “Instructions in American English: Volume I,” he read, “by Oh Sametaroh.” The text was typeset in tategaki format—top to bottom and left to right—which meant he had to turn the book sideways to read the sentences. He turned the page and said, “That’s way wrong.”
“The katakana phonetics?”
“No, the explanation of the grammar.”
“It’s fairly horrid throughout. As Uncle says, Sammoh was a businessman first, a linguist second. But he did get some things right. Like specializing in American English at a time when the sun never set on the British Empire.” Elly turned to the frontispiece. “There,” she said, pushing the book across the table. “That’s him, Sammoh.”
The Path Of Dreams Page 11
