Ms. Ota started by serving thin slices of raw tuna. “Ahi,” she said, a delicacy. My parents had taken me to the only sushi restaurant in Oakville and my Northwestern dining hall served it sometimes, so I wasn’t unfamiliar with it. “In Japan,” Mrs. Ota said, “the most highly regarded chefs in Japan get their picks of the best quality fish.” The chefs at the bottom of the ranks get the dregs, she added, with a sly smile. Like Owen’s, Mrs. Ota’s teeth were small and perfect, her eyes dark and deep-set, attractively framed by black eyeliner. The ahi was sweet butter and salt on my tongue.
“It’s delicious,” I said, trying to be nonchalant. Owen told his mother that I was “willing” to learn about haiku, that we were doing a haiku project together. “Yes,” I added, unnecessarily, and she remarked that our choice to write about haiku was “wonderful.”
“Such a beautiful art. Did you know that Owen is a published haiku poet?” she said. Owen threw me a small, self-conscious smile and pointed out that it was just a local publication in Tokyo, nothing big. I was floored, told him he was the only person I’d ever known that’d published anything other than in a school paper or website.
“Owen is modest,” Mrs. Ota said, beams of pride brightening her beautiful eyes. I pictured my own mother, a mouse in her bedroom back in Oakville. She hadn’t said she was proud of me since I returned to college, since I’d unwrapped myself from my leaded blanket of grief. She’d mainly worried me with silence and when she did speak, she warned me to be “safe.” How wonderful it must be to have a mother like Owen’s, so glamourous and open and radiating raw maternal love.
The next dish was a steaming platter of tempura vegetables, carrots, sweet potatoes, string beans and onions. I ate more than my share of soft crunchy potatoes dipped in ginger and soy sauce. She brought in the main course on a gleaming black lacquer tray, a heaping bowl of rice and cuttlefish smothered in pungent yellow curry. I struggled through half a bowl with my nose running and then put my fork down, trying not to clink it on the plate, hoping Mrs. Ota wouldn’t notice.
“Not to worry, Lucy. Dessert will clear out the burn,” she said, and replaced the curry with a little square, like a tiny pineapple upside-down cake. I don’t recall the name of the cake, only that it tasted cool and fruity. The rest of our conversation during the meal was light. Mrs. Ota asked me questions about Oakville and asked how I liked college. I avoided talking about my father, didn’t want to throw wet wool over this shiny, laden moment.
Mrs. Ota said she hadn’t planned to come to Illinois but was willing when her company sought to transfer her. “Luckily Owen’s school records were strong enough for late acceptance to Northwestern,” she said.
“Lucy’s mother is a teacher,” Owen said, shifting the focus away from himself. I’d forgotten I’d mentioned my mother in class introductions. My dad had been a teacher too, but I hadn’t mentioned him in class.
“Ah. We call that sensei in Japanese,” Mrs. Ota said. “Teachers are treated with utmost respect in Japan. You must be proud to be the daughter of a sensei.” Pride hadn’t been on my radar. My parents’ jobs were respectable, nice, stable, but I hadn’t considered them as worthy of high honor, and my dad, well my feelings were a mixture of love and shame. “Will you be a sensei too?” she’d asked, and I’d said journalism was my probable plan.
Mrs. Ota wanted to know about my travels, where I’d been and what I’d seen. I was embarrassed to admit I’d only traveled in the Midwest, places my parents and I could go by car, Michigan, Indiana, and around Illinois, mainly. I didn’t want to talk about my meager life, my limited worldliness, so I asked her how she liked Illinois.
“We won’t get too attached since it’s our temporary home.” I was struck by her use of the pronoun “we,” as if she and her son not only shared a home but felt the same feelings, an agreement not to become attached to Illinois. My full belly gurgled with unease at the thought of Owen leaving Northwestern. She continued, “Owen tells me you might consider a study abroad program. You’d love Japan. We have a graceful and unique culture.”
Owen rubbed his chin and smiled at me, asking for commiseration. “Yes,” I lied. “I’ve been thinking about it.” Up until that moment, I’d never thought about it, never discussed with Owen or anyone else the idea of studying in Japan. Of course, since I met him, I’d been pondering the country, picturing myself there with Owen, but not really considering how I might get there. I shot him a questioning look.
When his mother carried dishes into the kitchen, Owen said, “I don’t know why I told her that. I guess I thought it would make her happy.”
“Happy that I’d want to study in Japan?” I whispered, keeping our secret. “Why?”
“She likes anyone better if they like Japan, that’s all.” The chair felt hard on my tailbone and I shifted my weight. Owen stood, said something about being tired, preferring to start the haiku project tomorrow instead of tonight. He shouted to his mom that I had to go.
She poked her head out of the kitchen. “Goodbye, Lucy. See you again soon?” Her elegant voice held a tinge of hope.
Owen guided me to the door. He didn’t hug me goodbye, but instead touched my shoulder in the same spot he’d touched in the hall at school. He promised me we’d work on the project the next day and then he said, “I’ll show you my fort too.”
In my hustle out the front door I didn’t think to ask him why he had a fort, why anyone twenty-one years old would have a fort. I did say, “haiku,” as if confirming a private deal we’d struck. “Yep. Haiku tomorrow,” he said. “Bye.” He didn’t offer to walk me back to campus and I was ejected out into the night.
I hurried to the dorm under the inky sky. My skin grew damp from the heavy hot breeze after the air-conditioned house. My right hand, which had held Owen’s, was warm, as if blushing, and my shoulder was tingly where he’d touched. I tiptoed past the common room and climbed into bed, closing my eyes hard, muting my phone so I wouldn’t have to talk to Rose if she called.
I tried to sleep but instead I pondered my time in the gorgeous house, the spicy Japanese food, and Owen’s beautiful mother gazing at him with such pride. Owen’s behavior had been a little off, cold and then warm and then cool again, but maybe he was nervous. I turned on Rufus Wainright’s version of “Hallelujah.” As the chorus rose and fell, I repeated little mantras in my mind in hopes that they’d take hold in my sleep and I’d dream them into reality. Owen and me, in love, in Japan. Such juvenile fantasies, but at the time, I didn’t know.
Chapter Eight
The next day Rose pried relentlessly for details about my dinner at Owen’s house. “Did you kiss?” she asked. “Did you do more?” I refused to tell her anything, not that he held my hand and not that he mentioned the idea of me studying in Japan. “I know you like him,” she said, “because you’ve never been this quiet.” It tortured Rose that Owen and I may or may not have kissed, may or may not have done more. But I didn’t want to talk about the fact that nothing happened between us and that he’d ushered me out the door with one small tap on the shoulder. Today would be different and after today, maybe I’d want to tell her.
Since last night, a beansprout notion of Japan, of going to Japan, had been germinating in my brain, working on me. I started reading about the country. I hatched the notion of going to Japan to see Owen. I could study in Japan. I could live in Japan with Owen later, as adults, in love. Was this fantasy or a real possibility? I wasn’t sure, but it was the start of a longing like the beginning of a hunger pain, a hot, hollow hole in an empty stomach. My future-self beckoned to me, from a shady spot next to Owen on a tree-lined street in a Tokyo suburb, from a crowded downtown corner with well-dressed workers rushing to and fro, from a tall corporate window, where Owen and his mother shared a corner office and I was joining them for lunch. Somehow it all seemed pinned on today, on what happened between us with the haiku project and in his fort, as if our future together would be confirmed by one charmed afternoon.
Owen drove his ele
ctric-blue Volkswagen Bug up to the sidewalk outside my dorm, where I stood with Rose and a few other students. I shielded my eyes from the sun and focused on Owen’s hand, extended from the car window. He handed me a paperback with Japanese and English on the cover. Beautiful Haiku was the title. Its cover illustration was a rounded cherry blossom tree with a shock of pink flowers haloed around leafy branches. “It’s a quick read. Get in.”
As we drove away, Rose and others watched us. I sat tall in the passenger seat relishing being Owen’s chosen one, tamping down my urge to kiss the side of his olive cheek. The cool guy had selected the nerdy girl. I almost forgot about his odd treatment of me the night before, yin and yang, close to me and far away at the same time. Today we would work on haiku and I’d see his “fort.” The word “fort” conjured up all manner of sneaky spaces in my mind, hidden shacks where high school kids made out, underground bunkers for hiding time capsules. I didn’t ask him what his fort was because I didn’t want to spoil the surprise or let on what I hoped might happen there. Rose gave a little wave as we drove off.
I asked Owen if he we had enough time to read an entire poetry book and complete the project. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Trust me.” And I did trust him, to teach me about haiku, to take me to his fort, to drive me anywhere. We didn’t have to define this as a date or something else. In that moment, being together was everything and it was enough. The Bug’s windows were down, and the wind whipped my hair wildly. Owen’s hair must have been gelled into place because it didn’t move. I wanted to touch his hair or put my hand on his long leg, but better judgement told me this wasn’t the time. My arm stuck to the car seat and my clothes stuck to my skin. I yanked at my gauzy tank top in quick moves so he wouldn’t see.
When we got to his house it loomed even larger than it had yesterday. A sudden steamy downpour threw sheets of water down the tall front windows and we sprinted in the front door, bumping into each other as we ran. Once inside, Owen dropped his backpack on the floor and drew me toward him and kissed me, full and long. My legs actually buckled; rainwater slipped down them onto the clean marble. He touched my fingers, still clenched around my damp backpack and took it from my hand, kissed me once more. Then as if a switch had been flipped, he stepped back and said, “Let’s study.”
Dazed, I steadied myself, asked if he was sure. He said he was sure and that his mom was probably home, somewhere in one of the far-flung rooms and besides, we had to do our project. “We’ll have more time together. In the fort,” he said, his brown eyes soft, and I agreed.
And so, just like that, we got to work. We spread our computers and books on his large low living room coffee table. “I’ve been writing haiku since I was little,” he said. “Let’s write one together to go with our report.” His voice had an infectious delight, as if the idea of co-writing a haiku with me was the best idea he’d ever had.
I’d tried my hand at poems in the past and my results were mediocre, certainly not fit for publication the way Owen’s haiku had been. But his enthusiasm was intoxicating, and my thought processes were chemically diluted from our brief make out. If Owen thought we could write something worth sharing with the class, then I believed we could too. I asked him if I could see the haiku he’d published in Japan. He said, “Not now,” but I persisted, asked to know where it was published. My curiosity was piqued. He would only say that it was published in a tiny literary journal in Tokyo and that he’d show me “later.” If Rose or anybody else had been so elusive, I would have called them out, but with Owen, I acquiesced, agreeing to wait until later to read his haiku, to kiss him again, to see his fort. My boundaries were wiggly and weak when it came to Owen.
He walked me through the history of haiku. Speaking in a professorial tone, he told me that in 1892 Masoaka Shiki established haiku as a new poetic form with three lines; five syllables, seven syllables, and five syllables, and a seasonal theme from nature. Then Kawahigashi Hekigoto came along and furthered the haiku form to include two key concepts: the poem should have no center of interest, and it should be on a subject taken from daily, local life.
“The goal is to thrill people by writing about an everyday experience,” Owen told me, “but create a new understanding about it.” And another thing, he said, haiku have two parts. The parts must be separate but must enrich each other.
I enjoyed seeing Owen in sensei mode and I leaned in attentively, wishing for more kisses, but content for the moment to be close to him.
“Here’s one of my favorites,” he said, “by Murakami Kijo.” He opened the book and set it in front of me. I read aloud.
* * *
First autumn morning;
the mirror I stare into
shows my father’s face.
* * *
Simplicity, beauty, truth. This haiku captured so much. A tear popped into my eye and I turned so that Owen wouldn’t notice, but he took my hand. I hadn’t told him that my father had died a year earlier, but his face registered understanding. “Does this remind you of your father?” he said, and I nodded. “Is he gone?” I nodded again. “I’m sorry,” he said. And we sat, hands entwined until my urge to cry had passed.
“This poem reminds of my father too,” he said, finally. “For different reasons. Mine doesn’t approve of me.” His blunt statement filled up the space between us. “Lu, I feel accepted by you. You respect me.” This sudden change of subject, from our fathers to us, to our relationship, startled me. His voice was choked.
“Of course, I respect you. What do you mean, your father doesn’t approve of you?” He dropped his head into his hands, slumped over. I moved closer, slid my hand up and down his back. It was probably wrong that I tried to turn a comforting moment into a sensual one, but he stayed there, head in his hands, leaning against me. After a few moments he straightened, gently pushed my hand away.
“My brother, Hisashi. He’s the one my father loves,” Owen said sadly. “He’s successful, a photojournalist. But, even Hisashi doesn’t have my dad’s full acceptance. Hisashi lives far away from the family, on an island, Okinawa. That bothers my dad.”
I wanted to ask questions to understand more about Owen’s family dynamic, but he steered our conversation away from his family to mine. “Tell me about your father,” he said. “Talking about mine is no good.”
I felt connected to Owen in that moment, safe to share my secrets, and so I told him my father had died, that he’d been an alcoholic, and that my mom hadn’t recovered from his death or been fully happy in their life together. Pained, he leaned in touched my face, sending new sparks across my skin. He kissed me ever so lightly. I heard a door open somewhere, maybe the kitchen.
“Hello?” Mrs. Ota called out. I moved away, but Owen didn’t. He held our gentle kiss in place. When he finally let me go, Mrs. Ota stood nearby, smiling.
“Studying?”
“Yes. We are.” Owen sounded irritated.
“Keep it up,” she said, with a little laugh.
She left, and Owen said, “Lu, I’m sorry about your father.”
“He wasn’t perfect, but….” I swallowed the lump in my throat, didn’t want to feel the grief anew, fresh because of acknowledgement by Owen. “He was a teacher like my mom, they taught at the same elementary school. I look just like him.”
“Then he must have been beautiful,” Owen said.
The ceiling could have split wide open at that moment and sucked me up into the galaxy, I was as high as the moon and stars. “I hear him talk to me sometimes.” I paused, then said, “Sometimes, especially when it’s windy, I hear his voice.”
Owen’s eyes widened. “Ah, what a gift. To hear the loving words of a father from the spirit realm.” Our thighs touched, and I felt my face grow hot. He continued, “In Japan, we honor the dead as though they are alive. We give them gifts and speak to them too. Ancestors can speak to us, that’s what Japanese believe. When you come to Japan, I will take you to my ancestral shrine.”
And just then I felt Owen rein himse
lf back in, the way he’d done the other night, and after kissing me in his foyer, like flipping off a bright flashlight. He stood and said, “We should finish the report.”
“Right,” I said, confused by the scene that had just played out. I was torn between wanting to kiss him again and wanting to show restraint. We ended up spending the next two hours writing our report, which we titled, “How to Haiku—A Creative History.” We wrote our own haiku to read to the class, with the requisite nature reference and a twist to illuminate something new.
* * *
Evanston is still
trees pause, awaiting a storm
downpour never comes
* * *
I was proud to have written even the simplest little poem and giddy about writing it with Owen. “If anyone had told me I’d be sharing haiku with a woman from Illinois, I’d never have believed it,” he said, echoing my own feelings about writing poetry with a man from Japan.
“It’s late,” he said. “Tomorrow, I’ll show you my fort.” And he drove me back to school, dropped me off on the curb, and was gone as quick as a thief. I stood for a moment, awash in moonlight, then went in and waited for tomorrow to come.
Chapter Nine
For a second time, I stood waiting for Owen in the dorm parking lot, while the September sun seared the top of my head. When he finally arrived, students watched us drive away and I pretended I didn’t notice them. Everyone looked at Owen always. He was exotic, magnetic, cool, with not a drop of sweat on his brow despite the pressing heat. I felt conspicuously plain sitting next to him in his car, certain he could feel the hot flush radiating off me.
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