Burt ran up to Jake and me as we took in the grand view. “Do you see this?” he said, waving a newspaper. “Word about this installation has exploded like bloody fireworks. Every room within a hundred miles is booked for the duration. The tourism board is saying that they’ve already gotten hundreds of international calls from people wanting to come see the great Path of Stones.” Burt squinted and scanned the paper. “Let’s see, they’re calling this ‘an unforgettable image from one of the most important figures of contemporary art… lofty in beauty, scale, and in the sublimely spiritual impact it makes on those who see it.’ Do you hear that, Jake-O?”
Jake shrugged. “I’m glad you’re happy, Burty.” Jake patted his friend’s bulky shoulder.
Burt folded the paper and tucked it under his arm. “I’ve got to check the answering service. I bet the phones are ringing off the hook.”
Seeing a man of Burt’s size actually scamper away made both of us laugh. Jake turned to me. “I’m starved. Want to get some lunch?”
The accolades that turned Burt from grumpy to giddy mattered not a whit to Jake. The installation would be disassembled after a few months, though it broke my heart to think about it. Jake’s perfect, broken boulders would be moved to a garden elsewhere in the small village of Kamakura, but not near the Buddha where Jake had envisioned them—where they belonged.
I wanted each of his creations to stand so that generations could view them and experience the awe of their simple beauty. Burt seemed to want that, too, and he strived to preserve the grandeur of them as best he could with his camera. Soon the Great Buddha would once again be alone in the maple grove among the ancient temples, as he had been since the thirteenth century. I wondered if he would feel lonely. I wanted to talk about it all with Jake, but whenever I tried, he changed the subject. The experience, though it lingered for me, was over for him. He had moved on.
* * *
We returned to Tokyo after the Kamakura installation. Jake complied with every one of Burt’s demands.
“What next, Mr. Bloom?” one reporter asked in broken English at a press conference. “What is the art will you make after you leave Japan?”
Jake was seated on a stage, behind a table with a linen tablecloth, a spider web of microphones before him. Burt skulked at the side of the room. Jake grinned at me where I sat in the audience. Cameras flashed. “We’ll enjoy a few more days in your beautiful country. Then I’ll go back to San Francisco, where my dear lady friend’s artistry as a surgeon is of much greater importance than what I’ve done here.”
I watched as Burt shook his head, frustrated, I assumed, that Jake would waste an opportunity talking of my work instead of promoting his own.
A diminutive Japanese woman stood. She held a small notepad and spoke in perfect English, in a voice so light that it could have been a child’s. “If you please. It has been reported that there was initially great resistance to your work in Kamakura. How did such an enormous vision become reality with so many obstacles in the path?”
“I can answer that question in just two words,” Jake said. He paused, and a hush filled the room. Jake shielded his eyes from the light and scanned the room. “Burt Swift. Burt, come on up here.”
Jake began to clap and the crowd followed, offering a reserved round of applause. Burt arrived at the front, his face glowing bright pink as Jake waxed on about all that he’d done to make the Path of Stones possible. The questions went on for over an hour.
In our final day in Tokyo, Burt collected his last chit from Jake, requiring him to pose for a formal portrait near his sculpture in Ueno Park. “Okay, but snap fast. I think I’ve just about paid you off,” Jake complained.
Once the last photo was taken, I went to get us coffees before we were to leave the city for a few days of solitude and Jake’s final installation. When I returned, I couldn’t find Jake anywhere. I searched among the lines of cherry blossom trees, now just beginning to bud, and the picturesque arched wooden bridges and gardens. Afloat on a tranquil reflecting pond were lily pads and lotus blossoms, mirrored images of bamboo stalks, and maples. Finally, I spotted Jake crouched at the water’s edge.
Before him was a row of three simple nests constructed of gray twigs, each surrounded by beds of burgundy maple leaves. “Wow,” I whispered. “How can you make a cluster of twigs and leaves so beautiful?”
“I didn’t make beauty,” he said as he stood and turned toward me. “I just made you notice it.” He stood and I stepped into his arms. From behind a nearby tree we heard the click of a camera’s shutter.
“Goddammit, Burt!” Jake shouted. “Turning into paparazzi doesn’t flatter you. Maybe you should work for the National Enquirer.”
Then we could see that it was not Burt, but dozens of the Japanese press. Cameras clicked and photographers stepped closer to get a glimpse of whatever Jake was creating. He chatted amicably in Japanese. Reporters scribbled notes on small pads.
“Come on, Kat. They want you in the picture.”
“No they don’t, Jake. They want you, not me.”
Jake stepped toward me. “You were the inspiration for the Kamakura piece,” he whispered. “I need my muse to be in the photographs.”
Tucking my hair behind my ears and licking my lips, I reluctantly moved in to pose alongside Jake. Lenses the length of baseball bats came at us from all directions. I wanted to hide behind Jake, but he pulled me forward, surprising me with a huge, passionate kiss. Clicks and flashes exploded for another round.
* * *
We traveled south and west of Tokyo to the opposite shore of Japan to a village outside of the city of Fukuoka. Burt had arranged for Jake and me to have a few days alone while the stage was set for his final installation.
Jake and I wandered the hills, sometimes together and sometimes separately. The Japanese countryside held all of the serenity that Tokyo lacked. Layers upon layers of jade green hills revealed themselves as morning fog retreated. Sika deer, with their stately antlers and delicate spots, regarded us by pausing their grazing. Green woodpeckers fluttered through tree limbs. The limbs, still winter-bare, reached delicate fingers to what little light they could find.
It became sport for the village children to follow the “mysterious American,” as Jake was being called, leaving enough distance between him and themselves so as not to disturb his strange behavior. Children dressed in uniforms and yellow slickers followed Jake like a small band of spies, discovering the surprises he left for them. He arranged feathers, leaves, branches, and pieces of shale—items from their everyday surroundings—into whimsical patterns that delighted them.
On the morning we were to move out to the installation site, I repacked my suitcase with the clothes that our host family had insisted on laundering. My cotton shirts smelled of the verdant hills. As I rearranged my things in my suitcase, I came upon the box of tampons I’d packed for the trip. Holding the unopened box, I calculated. Not in Japan, I figured. Not ever at Jake’s house. The reality of how many days had passed started to sink in. I sat on the edge of the bed and ran my fingers over the pink chenille spread.
How could I be so stupid? I did the math. It had been five months since the last time Nigel and I had sex, and that had always been with protection. I’d used my diaphragm with Jake all but our first night together, nearly five weeks before.
I took a walk into town, intending to buy a home pregnancy test at the local pharmacy. Unable to read the packages, I bought three different items with pictures of women on the box, only to find when I opened them that I’d bought feminine deodorant, vaginal itch cream, and a douche. I laughed at myself—a brittle, mocking laugh, because even without the test, I already knew what it would tell me.
* * *
Jake was oddly silent as we drove on the narrow roads to meet up with Burt and the crew, as well as photographers from National Geographic. I wanted to talk to him, but he was concentrating, thinking, I assumed, about his installation. With each passing mile, my resolve not to worry weak
ened.
All I could do was think and sort through a series of alternate plans and contingencies. I was just starting my residency. Jake and I were so new together. And then there was Jake’s explosion in Tokyo. Was this someone ready to be a father? He might not even want children.
I could terminate the pregnancy when I got back to San Francisco. In one semester in the dorms at Stanford, six girls I knew had ended unwanted pregnancies. Shucking the last vestiges of my Catholic upbringing, I had supported them, even accompanying one girl to the clinic for her procedure. I’d uttered only support while silently I’d thought them all foolish for getting themselves into situations where they were forced to make such a terrible choice. Judgmental; Jake was right.
Burt greeted us where the road ended and helped us carry our bags the last quarter mile along a dirt path. He guided us to the trailer that would be our home for the next three days while Jake worked. A second trailer sat perched nearby, with a cluster of three smaller RVs a few hundred yards away. Other than the small encampment, no other sign of human touch could be seen from the lush green hillside. Craggy rocks pierced the thick moss carpet that draped over the gentle slopes. In the distance, all that could be seen were layers of emerald hills, folded upon one another, a thousand shades of green.
“How do you like the digs, mate?” Burt asked, his arms spread wide. “Got you two private quarters.” He winked at me. “Sure you don’t want to bunk in a frat house, Kate?”
I looked into Burt’s face, grateful that he seemed to be growing a little less hostile. “Nope, I think I saw the ‘No Stinky Girls Allowed’ sign.”
Burt sank his hands deep into his pockets. “Oh, I think you smell all right,” he said. The corners of his lips turned up just a little. The mountain of a man seemed to be warming to me.
We poked our heads into the mobile home. The kitchen table bore a vase filled with a single green orchid dangling like a hummingbird. I thought of my dad’s orchid menagerie back at the pub. “Burt, I’m touched,” I said. “I hope it didn’t put you to too much trouble.”
“Trouble is my job,” he said, delivering a little salute from the brim of his World Cup cap. He turned to Jake. “Got a moment?”
The two stepped away. Burt handed Jake what appeared to be a small box. Jake threw his arms around the big Aussie, turned his back to me, then hugged Burt again. Burt wiped his forehead and passed Jake a newspaper. Jake leaned back, laughing. Then Burt handed him a smaller piece of paper. Now Jake parted from Burt in a storm. His arms flailed and he kicked at the ground.
Jake wadded and flung the piece of paper down, wearing fury on his face. Burt’s murmurs failed to soothe him. Jake turned and stomped off.
I approached Burt where he stood, the rumpled newspaper in his hand. Jake kicked at the dirt in the distance.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I should’ve waited. I just thought those press guys might bring it up. He’ll be in no mood now, and we’ve got a timeline.”
Burt handed me the Lifestyle section of The New York Times. On the front page, above the fold, I could see my own face next to Jake’s; at our feet, his beautiful nests. The caption read: “Environmental sculptor, newlywed Jake Bloom, with his bride at Tokyo’s Ueno Gardens.”
“Bride! Who reported us as married?”
“Your marital status got a little lost in the translation, I reckon.”
My heart sank into the pit of my gut. I thought of the unopened box of tampons in my suitcase. “And Jake is angry because of this?”
“Jesus, no,” Burt groaned. “That bit made him laugh.”
Burt hesitated before picking up the paper that Jake had thrown to the ground. He handed it to me. The letterhead read Western Union, a telegram addressed to Burt.
Mr. Swift:
Must rectify impetuous marriage. Will compensate you $100K for your influence. Additional $50K to be offered as motivation to the woman. $100K to her when annulment complete. Keep advised on progress.
—AJB
“AJB? I’m assuming that’s Aaron Bloom.”
“None other. He’s a miserable sod, that one. Jake ignores him, so he tries to buy my influence.” Burt’s face broke into a wide smile. “Not that I can be bought, mind you. Arrogant prick thinks money can buy anything. It does from some people, and Jake’s been betrayed before. Students, employees.” Burt peered at me. “Girlfriends. But the bloke thinks only in dollar signs. Jake and I made an agreement years ago that I’d always tell him about his dad’s shenanigans. Just keeping my promise.”
“I thought they were estranged. Why does Jake care what his father has to say?”
“Usually doesn’t. I thought he’d get a laugh like he usually does. This time it wasn’t funny. I’d knock me father’s block off if he insulted you with such an offer.”
I gave him a gentle punch in the shoulder. “And I thought you didn’t like me.”
“Well, there you go thinking.” Burt pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it.
“What should I do?” I asked.
“Nothing to do unless you want to make an easy hundred-fifty grand. Jake is accustomed to his father tossing his fat around. He’ll be over it soon enough. You’re special to him.”
“He’s special to me, too.” We stood there watching the mist crawl to fill the hollows in the hills. It rested in thick flannel tufts amid the shadows of the aging day. In only moments, the foggy layer muted the hills. The world disappeared, and it felt like Burt and I were the only two people in it. “I’m pregnant,” I said. My words hung in the air, lingering with the mist.
A single exhalation was the only response.
“I don’t know what to do. I was afraid of how Jake would react before. Now this.”
“Before you are concerned with Jake’s response, you’d best know your own. Don’t tell him until you’re clear what you want to do. He’s like a child that way. Don’t mention Disneyland unless you’ve already got your tickets.” Without another word, Burt disappeared into the fog.
I crouched and sat down on the mossy hill. The damp ground soaked the seat of my jeans. The ground was a thick green carpet at my feet. There, tucked near a rock, was a perfect, pale green egg the size of an almond. No sign of a nest or a mother bird to be found. I picked up the egg and held it in my palm. It was cool. Nothing I could do would bring its tiny inhabitant back to life.
Gray darkness fell and cold surrounded me. The smell of smoke from a distant campfire singed the air. Suddenly chilled to my center, I followed my nose through the fog. As the smell of smoke grew stronger, Jake stepped into view carrying a lantern. He pressed his warm lips against my cold ones and tucked my arms into his jacket. His hair smelled of ash. “You’re shaking,” he said. He guided me across the rocky hillside to the amber blossom of his fire. He poked the flames and added a log.
“I was going to look for you, but you seemed to be enjoying your solitude,” he said, stirring the fire. “I’ve been thinking, Kat. I’ve spent my whole life living for the moment. Maybe because I never thought I’d ever have a future that mattered. I’ve traveled light. Kept from getting attached to anyone except Burt. I didn’t even like my art to be designed with any future in mind. But I’ve started looking ahead.” Jake’s eyes looked straight and true, directly into mine. “I see a future now, but only one with you in it.”
Only a few weeks before I’d had a future all mapped out, and now that path seemed irreparably altered. “What about your dad?”
He stirred the fire, sending another swarm of glowing sparks into the night. “My father is not a factor in my life. I just don’t want him touching what we have.”
It was the second time I’d felt protected.
“I was going to wait, but I can’t,” he said. From the pocket of his jacket, Jake pulled a small box carved from gleaming cherry wood. “This just arrived. I’ve been worried all day that it might not get here.”
The box was an intricate puzzle, the pieces of which slid apart fr
om one another in one silky motion. Inside, nested in a bed of tiny pink shells, was a ring cast in platinum. I’d never cared about jewelry, but this was a ring unlike anything I’d ever seen. Slim, shimmering, silver twigs formed a nest, a miniscule remembrance of Jake’s sculpture next to the reflecting pond in Tokyo. Inside the nest rested a perfect pink pearl.
“I sketched it in Tokyo. An artisan there cast it for me. What do you think?”
Jake’s words pulled me back into the body that I didn’t know I’d left. “It’s magical.”
“It’s a sculpture of my wish,” Jake said. “It’s you and me. A nest for each other. Ever since I’ve known you all I can think about making are serene winding trails and nests. Seems like a sign to me. Maybe my art is actually directing me to you. Marry me, Kat.”
His words blasted me from where I sat. My careful plans crumbled around me like so much ash from a glowing ember. A baby and a husband weren’t part of my design. I tried to imagine going ahead with my plans—taking those steps without Jake. I blurted for the second time, “I’m pregnant.” As the words came out, I knew that I’d decided against any possibility of ending the pregnancy.
Jake sprang up. He jumped, both feet leaving the ground, and landed on the huge rock we’d been sitting on. Like a coyote baying at the moon, Jake let out a loud howl that pierced the night. “Ow, ow ooooooooowww!” Then he grabbed me in his arms and twirled me in the glowing firelight.
“What about my residency? All I’ve ever wanted was to be a surgeon. I’m so close.”
“Marry me, Kat. There are two of us in this. You’ll be a surgeon. That’s your art. I’d never get in the way of that. We’ve got everything. Thanks to Burt I have enough money so you can work as much or as little as you want. I’ll change diapers and make baby food. We’ll make a home like I never had, right in San Francisco near your family. We’ll surround our baby with love and art and—” He jumped to the top of the rock, flung his arms out wide, and resumed his howling.
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