by Hiromi Goto
Masahiro’s lips turn down. His grandchildren. They sit on the bench opposite, their comics, notepads, coloured pencils, and game cartridges spread all over the kitchen table. The girl with that ridiculous and filthy hat. Speaking in English in front of their visiting grandfather when they could try harder with their atrocious Japanese.
Gary turns his shoulder so his sister can’t see the screen of his Gameboy. The sound is turned off because Ojī-chan complained about the noise.
“I said, It’s my turn!”
“This is mine. You don’t even know how to use the buttons right,” Gary mumbles.
“It’s not fair. I never get to play with it. Shizuko says we have to share!” Jennifer’s eyes glint dark and bright. She deepens her voice. “Santa’s watching. . . .”
Masahiro snorts. He can’t understand their words but their tone is unmannered and disagreeable. And calling their mother Shizuko! What was the world coming to? How could Osamu let the wife drive this over-sized vehicle? Masahiro glares at his own wife asleep in the swivel chair next to the door, her mouth foolishly slack. Masahiro is certain that the medication Shizuko gave her must be sleeping pills, not anti-nausea tablets.
“And the food,” Masahiro points his finger at his son, “American food is so bad. Not only is it overcooked and oversized, it’s floating in oil and laden with salt.”
“It’s Canadian food,” Osamu offers, “not American.”
“Yes, Canadian. That’s what I said. Canadian food is bad for you; it’s making you fat and look at the size of your wife. Before long, your children will be fat too and their classmates will laugh at them. You understand?”
“Yes, Papa,” Osamu monotones.
“There. I’m finished.” Masahiro nods emphatically. Osamu closes his eyes, the flesh of his cheeks settling.
It’s a long way to come just to visit grandchildren, Masahiro thinks, sighing. They talk in English to each other like foreigners and their Japanese so poor and such an accent! Grandchildren of his own blood and he cannot know them. And Gary. What a thing to name a child. What does it matter what Gary means in English? Gary was practically diarrhoea in Japanese. What could his son have been thinking?
Masahiro turns to glare at the grandchildren, but they ignore him.
“Stop breathing on my neck,” Gary mutters to his sister. “It stinks.”
“That’s my book,” Jennifer enunciates. “Why don’t you just play with your Gameboy?”
“You weren’t even looking at it.”
“It’s mine. Grandma gave it to me. Santa probably just wrote that down on his list. ‘Gary steals books.’”
“I did not steal your book! I’m just looking at it.”
Who would have thought that his son would throw away his own country and move to a land of foreigners? Masahiro shakes his head. Who would have thought he’d marry one? Her blood’s Japanese, true enough, but her thinking is foreign through and through. Their children call the parents by their first names! “Shizuko,” they chirp in public spaces, “Osamu!” The children throw their parents’ names away and nothing good can come of that. And his son’s wife. “Papa,” she calls him. So familiar. Like they’ve eaten off the same plate. “Papa,” she calls him, throwing that away as well. What the boy saw in her he really doesn’t know. But his son always had a taste for things foreign.
“Shizuko!” Jennifer screeches. “A truck just passed us and the man was holding his dick!”
Masahiro makes pinching motions with his thumb and forefinger, adding a little twist to make it look even more painful. Jennifer scowls back, her irises so dark that the whites are barely visible. She pushes the sagging spaghetti straps of her tank top back up, tosses her head, the tail of the raccoon-skin hat flying through the air. She turns her face forty-five degrees, chin raised.
Insolent! Masahiro thinks. Not cute at all. Not like a normal six-year-old. Mark my words, she’s going to turn out pregnant if a stop isn’t put to her behaviour.
“Your grandma’s sleeping, so be quiet!” Shizuko hollers back. “Don’t say ‘dick’ and don’t look at perverts.”
Gary, belatedly, peers out the window.
Masahiro doesn’t know what the yelling is about, but he knows that they shouldn’t be yelling at all. His son’s wife wasn’t raised properly, that’s obvious. And the same thing is happening with his grandchildren. He glares at the little beasts, but they ignore him. Gary, he decides, isn’t so obnoxious, but then, the child might be a weakling. A boy ought not to be bossed around by a younger sister.
Jennifer, bored, pokes her brother’s meaty ribs. Gary elbows back. Jennifer grits her teeth and yanks a handful of hair at the back of her brother’s head. Tears fill the boy’s eyes. He’s not allowed to hurt his sister and she knows it.
“Shizuko,” Gary gulps, “Jennifer’s pulling my hair.”
“Don’t tattle,” Shizuko scolds.
Masahiro grimaces. Ill-mannered, he thinks. The females of this country are uncivilized. Masahiro shifts on the bench cushion, too thin for his worn buttocks. Sighs. When did Mama get so old? Masahiro shakes his head. A man carries age far better than a woman, especially with jogging and eating plenty of vegetables. And after the age of forty, a man’s got to dress well. Mama has been just a little too fond of sweets, but she’s a hard worker. Not like that woman. She doesn’t even wake up to cook a decent breakfast for her children and husband! Masahiro’s eyes narrow.
The children eat cold cereal covered in sugars and fats and Osamu eats a banana. He’s not a monkey! He might not be an especially clever boy, but he works hard like his Mama. No, that woman stays in bed as long as she can and saunters into the kitchen like she owns the world and asks, “Breakfast, something eat, did you?”
Masahiro knows people do things differently in different countries, but some things must be maintained so the world runs smoothly. A woman must honour her husband and care for him. Children must respect adults. And the man must behave with dignity and authority.
“Damare!” Masahiro bellows, startling the children, who hadn’t been saying a thing.
Jennifer blinks her shock, her mouth working.
“See, did you sukebe in truck holding in hand pee pee?” Gary blurts in broken Japanese.
“WAAAAAAAAAA!” Jennifer bawls. She yanks her hat off and flings it across the camper, just missing her grandmother’s head.
Gary thrusts the Gameboy toward his sister, but she knocks it away, inconsolable.
Shizuko gives Osamu a look in the rear-view mirror. Mama doesn’t even twitch, and Gary stoically thrusts out his lower lip, pulls up his T-shirt so it completely covers his head.
Osamu digs around in the cooler.
“Here’s a nectarine,” he soothes, pressing the fruit into Jennifer’s hands. “Now be quiet, stop bawling.”
Jennifer wails harder and Masahiro’s fingers clench. All the girl needs is a good smack, he thinks.
“Just wipe her face,” Shizuko calls out. There’s a surge forward and the engine of the Winnebago shudders. “She can’t stop crying if her tears and runny nose are messing up her face!”
Osamu obediently wipes his daughter’s face and she stops crying like magic.
“Will you share your nectarine with Grandpa?” Masahiro asks Jennifer sweetly in Japanese.
She thrusts out her chin, shakes her head. Gary nudges her below the table, but she shakes her head harder.
“Jennifer doesn’t like to share her food,” Osamu apologizes.
“She should learn how. It’s for her own good, you understand.” Masahiro grabs the nectarine from Jennifer and splits the soft fruit open with his horny thumbnail. Jennifer shrieks like it’s her own flesh.
“Oh lord,” Shizuko mutters.
It takes several hours for Osamu to hook the trailer up to various outlets and drains. Masahiro watches suspiciously. Was his son sure that the toilet water wasn’t hooked up to the kitchen hose?
Osamu thrusts out his lower lip. Follows the trail of lines an
d tubing with his finger.
“Didn’t you get a book of directions?” Masahiro asks. “Americans are so careless. A rental agency should provide written instructions and translation for visiting tourists.”
“Isn’t Mama calling you?” Osamu asks.
Mama washes vegetables outside, in a basin. Masahiro can hear Shizuko rustling around inside the trailer. Probably eating snacks.
“Jennifer! Gary!” Shizuko yells through the mesh kitchen window as the children dart into the trees. “Don’t chase those poor chipmunks. What would you do if you caught them? Eat them? Just leave them alone! Don’t go too far! The sun’s going to set soon.”
Masahiro glares at Shizuko’s noise, but she shuts the window with a decided snick.
“Wash those carrots and potatoes once more,” Masahiro advises Mama. “We don’t know where they came from.”
Mama grunts and gets another basin of water from the hand-operated pump.
“We should cook outside so the frying meat won’t stink up the inside of the camper, you understand,” Masahiro announces.
Osamu walks up from behind the trailer, wiping his hands on his pants. He clears his throat. “Well, there’s a kitchen in this unit for a reason, Papa. I don’t see why –”
“I, for one, don’t want to sleep in fried meat air.”
Shizuko thumps the fridge door shut and stomps into the back of the camper. The plastic dishes in the cupboard clatter.
“And we’re making curry rice. We’ll smell curry for days and the heat will make it worse, you understand. You brought that portable stove. We can cook on the picnic table.” Masahiro crosses his arms.
“Why don’t you go for a walk. For your health,” Mama suggests in her gentle voice. Her pale face glowing in the growing dusk.
“That’s a very good idea. Bring up my appetite. The children shall come with me. They need the exercise. I’m only a retired dentist, but I know they are genetically inclined toward obesity, you understand. Regular walks might combat it. I say this not to be mean, but for their own welfare. There, I’m finished.” Masahiro strides toward the sounds of the playground. His withered head vulnerable on top of a bony neck. He is swallowed up by the trees.
Jennifer screeches on the swing set and Gary, crouching, stares at the ground.
Jennifer stretches and bends her knees, pumping higher and higher. The tail of the raccoon hat trailing behind her. She spits and the white gob arcs, splats near her brother’s feet. She shrieks gleefully.
“Shizuko!” Gary yells automatically.
“Oi! Oi!” Masahiro points his finger at the girl. “That’s no behaviour for a little girl! Come down off that swing and apologize to me and your brother!”
Jennifer pumps higher and higher, toes reaching toward the tips of the cedar and spruce. On the final rise of an arc, she launches her body out of the swing and hangs in mid-air. The background a frieze of exposed branches, undergrowth.
Masahiro’s heart plummets, then balloons inside his chest. His arms stretch out as if he can catch her, but she floats in slow motion far beyond his reach.
Red dust clouds upon impact. Surely she has broken her spine. But Jennifer adjusts her hat, brushes off her filthy shorts, and marches back through the trees, raccoon tail swinging. Masahiro’s mouth flaps for words. The child disappears and a few moments later he hears the screen door smack.
“You!” he manages. “You!”
A hot dry hand curls into his palm.
Gary stares past Masahiro’s head. Masahiro looks over his shoulder, but he cannot see anything except the darkening trees. He shakes his head. What is the world coming to? Girls jumping out of swings, boys who are crybabies.
“Come on, boy. I have an odometer feature on my wristwatch. Let’s see how long it takes you to walk five kilometres.”
“I’m goin’ cra-zy,” Shizuko sings in English, her voice sunny, the melody of “On Top of Ol’ Smoky.”
The children giggle from the recessed bunk above the cab of the camper.
“I’m going mad!
Why do I bear this?
He’s your friggin’ Dad!
Why don’t we leeeave him,
in a well forested place,
Your mom will thank me
I would in her place!”
The children giggle again and Jennifer sings too.
“I’m going cra-zy!”
“Don’t, Shizuko. You’ll encourage the children,” Osamu whispers.
“Jennifer! Take off your hat. Time to sleep, no singing. And Shizuko was just joking,” Shizuko says.
Osamu sighs. Squiggles around the small ledge of a bed that he and Shizuko share. It doesn’t seem right that they’ll dismantle the bed tomorrow and call it a kitchen table. Then eat off it. Osamu sighs again. Sex is out of the question.
“I’m serious, Osamu,” Shizuko whispers. “You have nooo idea what your father does to me! If you don’t get him to shut up, I can’t be blamed for my actions.”
“How can the man change? He’s been like this his whole life. It’s only until the end of August. Please.”
Shizuko opens her mouth to say something, but pinches it tight instead. She kisses Osamu on the cheek and rolls over to face the door.
“You’re lucky I love you so much,” she hisses.
So inconsiderate, Masahiro thinks. Tugs more blanket from Mama, not used to sharing. Singing so loudly, yelling. Other campers will hear and she can’t even carry a tune. The children are probably tone deaf by now.
Mama’s breathing is a cool whistle, like an autumn wind blowing the last leaves off bare-limbed trees. Her white face cold. Masahiro jabs his thumb into her side and Mama rolls over. Masahiro sighs. He could be golfing in the Rockies or swimming in a properly chlorinated pool at a resort hotel. But, no, camping in a used camper with an ill-mannered fat woman and uncivilized children. A weakling for a son. Who knows what kind of family had the camper before them? What manner of germs, viruses, and bacteria? A retired dentist ought not to find himself on such a low-class holiday!
What could that boy have been thinking, taking a seventy-five-year-old man on a camping trip? Why not just go white-water rafting and be done with it? Not that he feels weak and decrepit. But a man his age must be treated with certain respect and honour. Tomorrow, tomorrow, he will disinfect all of the cutlery with his rubbing alcohol. They’ll have to stop at a drug store to get some more. Tomorrow, Masahiro nods sleepily.
Tomorrow, Masahiro shudders, how quickly it comes. He is icy to the core and a dull pressure balloons in his bladder. He gropes futilely for the covers. Mama has curled up inside the quilt and Masahiro is left with nothing. The inside of his mouth a sour pit, he smacks his lips, the chapped skin rasping like husks of insects. He shivers and the reverberations amplify inside his bladder. Certainly he cannot wait until morning. Beer is not meant to be consumed while camping, Masahiro decides.
He slides his hand along the small shelf next to the bed for his glasses. When he puts them on the dim night shapes becomes less ominous. That heap of monstrous snoring is the boy’s foreign wife. That otherworldly grinding is the weakling grandson’s teeth. He’ll have to check them in the morning. That boy is a prime candidate for a retainer.
Where has that woman put the flashlight! It should be placed right next to the door in case of emergencies, urinary or otherwise. There is the camper-trailer toilet, but he will not be using it. He’s still not sure if Osamu put all of the hoses in the right places. Also, his and Mama’s bed is right next to the bathroom. He would smell urine all night. No, there is a perfectly good outhouse and Masahiro will do his business there.
Masahiro slips his feet into Osamu’s rubber slippers. Hips aching, he raises his bony buttocks from the thin mattress and shuffles to the door, his hand held out in front of him. The full moon shines through the dusty curtains outlining the rounded bulk of his sleeping son and his wife. The children in the bunk-shelf above the driver’s seat. The grinding noise stops. Does a head lift?
Masahiro peers, but the bunk space recesses into a dark rectangle.
“Oi,” Masahiro says hoarsely. Maybe one of the children could take him to the outhouse.
A vacuum of sound.
Pachi. Pachi.
No. He hasn’t imagined it, for certain! One of the children is awake. Staring at him. Blinking. He can hear the moist sound of eyelids closing, opening.
“Get down here and help your grandfather,” Masahiro demands, but his voice ends on a querulous wobble.
No one answers.
The air stills. The breathlessness uncanny. Like he’s in a room filled with corpses. Masahiro exhales jaggedly through his nostrils. A rush of shivery hair rises, blooms across his back. “Heh, heh,” he manages. Shakes his head at his nighttime folly. The disrespectful lot of them. He will go to the outhouse by himself.
Masahiro shuffles to the screen door and squeezes the twist latch in his bony fingers. Pulling briskly, the latch squeaks, but the door doesn’t budge. He twists harder, but only a dry screeech; the door does not pull open. Screee! Screee! He twists and twists again, the door refusing. Experimentally, he turns the knob more slowly, with careful concentration.
CREEEEEEEEEEECH.
“OhforChrissake!”
Hands thrust him aside and the screaming door is flung outward and open. Sweet cold night air slides into the moist heat of their shared air. Masahiro coughs and vapour balloons into his hot face. An icy kiss. Shizuko lumbers back onto the kitchen table bed. The legs squeal beneath her weight.
Masahiro peers out into the night. No one is offering to guide him to the outhouse despite the fact that he’s seventy-five years old and his night vision has been greatly reduced. Not that he is old and incompetent, but if that woman hasn’t the manners to offer her company, she ought to know enough to enlist one of the children.
Not that he’s frightened of going himself.
Masahiro grabs the door frame and taps out the steps. Fallen leaves, dry twigs break crackle beneath his feet like dead insects.
He should have worn a coat. The forest night is as cold as winter in Nagoya. The warmth is sucked from his lungs, and, unbidden, he thinks of the Woman of the Snow. Her deathly kiss. Heh, heh. When has he become so fanciful? His chest aches. But he won’t go back into the camper for that woman to think he’s witless and forgetful.
