by Mark Tiro
“Daddy, come back,” he says. “Why?”
But the bus I’m on tears off down the road. We’re gone. I strain to see him, but he’s gone now too.
I have to get off this interminable thing. I have to get back to my boy. I need to scoop him up in my arms, to hold him, to protect him, to love him.
The driver’s raging now. She is raging. Her hate is boring a hole, deep into my soul. Her anger is seeping out, it’s casting everything around it in darkness. I can’t breathe. It’s all too much now, and it’s choking me. And then it clicks. I look back out the window at my baby and I know. Now I know.
The driver pulls the throttle back, and we start to lift off from the ground. I lunge for the door and dive out, just before the craft pulls up. I look up as it flies off, then as the space around it first curves, then folds up as both craft and space disappear in a flash.
I stand up, and look back to where my baby last was, but I can’t see him.
I walk as fast as I can, but he’s not there anymore. I can’t find my boy. Where is my boy? Where is my boy! Where Is My Boy!
I am looking everywhere. I look, and I look, and I look.
I’m in the center of town now, and I go from shop to shop, from person to person. My baby? Where is my baby? I’m not panicked. I am consumed. In my life, there is nothing else. This is my only focus, my only thought.
I do nothing but look for my baby. Where is my boy? Nothing else matters. I look, and look and look.
And I can’t find him.
Now I start to panic. Now everything implodes.
Now my world tumbles to black.
I sit up, and suddenly I’m enveloped in a warm, soft classroom. I’m safe now, and all is spread out, on the board there, for me and for all to see.
This warmness—the softness that fills the space and comforts everyone else—it doesn’t fill me or warm me.
It doesn’t comfort me at all.
I sit there, wrapped in blankets, propped up on warm, soft pillows. But inside, I still feel the chill. Inside, the pain still cuts.
But I am awake. At last I am awake, and I can see this now for what it is. I don’t have to worry about my baby anymore. The lesson is written in black and white at the front of the room, staring back at me.
I don’t care. God, I don’t care. I loved that baby so much. I loved my boy. I want to see him once more. To hold him. To get off in the first instant, and not later, to hold him forevermore.
My panic is gone. I am calm. I don’t have to find him anymore, because I’m awake now and he doesn’t exist. Maybe it was a dream, I don’t know. But I should be okay. I only dreamed I had a son. He never really existed any more than I did. Why then, I ask myself, do I still love him so much?
He is not here to love, and yet I love him still. How is that?
The blankets and pillows must be working. I am warm now, ensconced in a pleasant, healing balm.
And yet, how is it that I feel an emptiness where my son was, even though he never really was?
God I love my baby.
One more thing though.
Now I’m angry.
I’m angry, but I ignore it. I can choose to ignore it, because I’m calm now. And because someone is talking. Who is that? Who is talking?
I can’t make it out, but I can hear his words. They fill me with warmth. They do what the blanket and the cushions and pillows couldn’t do. This is the warm comfort that balms up my heart, and brings me a reasonable peace.
I forget to be angry.
A man is talking. I know him. Or maybe I don’t. It doesn’t matter much either way.
“Sacrifice is a made up idea,” he says. “You can have anything you want. It’s just that—you can’t want it.”
This seems to be the funniest, most obvious thing in the world. He smiles, and everyone laughs.
I laugh too.
But I don’t get it.
The man at the front of the classroom doesn’t seem to notice—or care about—my lack of understanding. He just goes right on talking.
“It would be best just to let it go, or better yet, to not become attached in the first place,” he says. “But either way you choose, you can practice this, and you can learn this. It’s not rocket science here.”
He smiled at his joke. I looked around, and saw everyone else nodding their heads up and down, in agreement.
“Most of us, at some point or another, we value what’s really valueless. The key to seeing is to just stand aside and watch. Watch your thoughts, above all else. Just watch. Nothing else is required for sight.”
“Nothing else?” I thought.
“Good question—thank you for participating,” he said. “For coming back to us and paying attention.”
I thought I recognized the gleam in his eye, but I couldn’t place it.
He didn’t seem to recognize me either, and he went right on teaching.
“You do need, above all else, to have the willingness to see. ‘Above all else,’” he repeated. “But that should be easy enough… given the proper… motivation.”
Proper motivation? What motivation? This sounded ominous, and I’m not sure if I want to stay and listen to you anymore. This thought of mine, he either didn’t hear, or just completely ignored.
“See, we all go through life, anticipating and bracing ourselves for grief at the thought of losing whatever it is that we value. But this need not be. When you’re tempted to picture yourself in a body, why don’t you try this instead: Go right ahead judging and desiring and being afraid of it all. But with just a tiny, little, small part of your mind, stand aside and—and here’s the key—just look, without judging. That’s all, just observe. And above all else, whatever you believe you see, inside or out—trust your willingness implicitly. You think that by looking within, you’ll be consumed by your own guilt and sins, and you’ll die. But I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised—where you thought you’d find darkness and pain, instead you’ll find only joy and peace.”
Well at least this much is obvious. Sitting there, it was clear as day. What couldn’t be more obvious?
I pulled the blanket up again and snuggled under it. As I did, this came to me, and it was brilliant:
Next lifetime, I thought, I’m not getting out of bed.
And also—maybe I’ll get a dog.
See what I mean? Absolutely brilliant, right?
For some reason though, he kept talking—impervious to my genius.
“Just an instant of willingness is all it takes, to see without judging,” he droned on.
More of the same. Blah, blah, blah.
I was excited though. I knew now what I had to do.
Get a dog and take a nap.
The keys to all happiness in life.
Next time I find myself on the crazy bus, I thought as my mind wandered, I’m just getting off. That’s it. No more drama, no more crazy drivers. Just get off the bus.
But something nagged at me now. I’m missing it, but I can’t remember what. I lost something, but what? What am I missing?
My mind wandered, obsessed with finding the answer. It galloped frantic and out of control. It wandered off, asleep and right back into the dream.
Then the ‘answer’ to what I had lost came to me.
It hit me with the thundering crash of a bus.
My son! Where is my son?
The warm blanket, the quiet classroom—it all fell away.
It disappeared.
Where is my son???? I started to look around, everywhere, frantically.
Where is my son!
What happened? Did I fall asleep? Where was he? Where am I?
I remembered. Oh God, I remembered.
I wanted to beat myself up. Why had I stopped looking for my boy? Why had I abandoned him? Where was he? What was I thinking, falling asleep like that? What was I thinking?
Why on earth had I stopped looking for my baby?
Where is he? Did I leave him there in that street?
I did, didn’t I? I left him there in the street.
I abandoned him, alone there, to die.
To be hit by traffic, to bleed to death. To die.
I did this. This is all my fault. No one else’s. Only mine. I am a murderer!
I killed him, didn’t I? I know I did.
I should die too. I want to die. I deserve to die.
I fell to my feet, and crumpled up into a ball.
I tried to tear at my clothes, to rend them in mourning. But I didn’t have the strength. I didn’t have the energy to even move. I just lay there in a heap on the floor, wanting to die of anger at myself. Of anger, and of shame, and most of all, of guilt.
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. What have I done?
Then everything went dark.
That terrible, crushing heaviness.
My baby was dead. And I killed him.
I am a murderer. And nothing I could ever do can remove the stain of my guilt. I deserve to die.
And here I am again, hurtling down into the heaviness.
I’m pressed down, under the heavy weight of something. Something terribly heavy.
Down, oh God, down. Down.
“Omedetou gozaimasu! Otokonokodesu!”
I didn’t understand. I had barely heard. I’d been crying too hard, from my pain, and the weight, and from struggling just to catch a breath.
Maybe four or so years later, when I finally would have been able to understand what the doctor’s words to my mom had meant, I’d forgotten that he’d ever said them.
Still, somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, his words hung suspended and motionless, just one more opening volley amongst so, so many:
“Congratulations! It’s a boy!”
V
YOSHIO
1
One
“Yoshio-san! Can I speak with you after class a minute?”
I stood up and bowed respectfully. “Of course sensei,” I said softly, but as formally as I could muster. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him wince just the tiniest bit as the word ‘sensei’ came out of my mouth. I hoped no one else noticed. Of course, why would anyone notice? Teachers asked to speak with their students after class, all the time.
Most of the boys were gone from our school now. I had just turned seventeen, and it was my last year here. After classes finished in the spring—I’d be gone too. With the other boys, the reason was mostly the fields that needed to be tended. The cherry blossoms that spring had come later than anyone could ever remember, and after that, there had been a mad rush in the fields all around the prefecture to get the spring crop into the ground. Plus, there weren’t as many boys as there used to be working the fields here. There were new factories in cities up and down the countryside, and nearly half the boys in my class alone had gotten work that spring in the factories where most of their fathers were already working. Almost all of us knew we would most certainly never set foot in this school again.
I sat back down and looked out the window at the hills that rose up where the houses and the buildings of our village ended. One day, trains and a large expressway would run through here, and people would drive by and look out their windows at this place as they passed by. But that would all would happen long after I was dead. Long after everyone I knew, and most everyone they knew too, was also dead.
For now, I just looked around, taking in the view of the mountains. No one had given me, or sensei, ‘the look’ I had dreaded. The other students were mostly focused on the papers and books on the desks in front of them. I looked down at the books in front of me, and I relaxed now too.
Well, not exactly relaxed. I tried to relax, but some space in me, somewhere between my legs, and my stomach and my heart started to tingle. I tried to push the feeling down. I almost succeeded. But then the class was over, and the feeling came rushing back with a vengeance. I stood up, and prayed my knees wouldn’t buckle and give way. As slowly as I could, I pushed my books and papers into my bag, waiting for the other students to do the same. I pretended that I couldn’t fit my books into my bag, trying not to draw any attention to myself and give the other students time to walk out of the classroom. Once all the other students had gone, I walked up to speak with my teacher.
“Congratulations on your engagement. Your family has made a very good match for you Yoshio-chan,” he said, scanning the classroom to make sure that the last of the other students had gone. This term of affection was not the way a sensei would normally address a seventeen year-old boy in front of other students.
“Thank you,” I murmured, as I walked up towards where the front of the room, where sensei was waiting for me.
“You will be very happy with your marriage, and be blessed with many children, I am sure.”
At his words, I winced, like someone had just thrust a tanto into me.
“I… I… I am very happy,” I stammered, and felt a tear start to fall.
He opened his arms as I got up to the front of the room.
I fell hard into them.
“I don’t want to be happy,” I cried. The tear had turned into a full stream, and I could feel sensei’s shirt starting to get wet. I pulled my head up.
“I don’t want to be happy,” I repeated. “I am happy.” Hearing the words tumble out of my mouth made me cry even harder. Then I looked down at the wet spot on his shoulder, though I could barely see it through tear-stained eyes. “I am so sorry about….”
“Don’t worry about my shirt Yoshio-chan.” He put his hand on my shoulder, so light that I barely felt its weight. My heart melted again.
“But your wife will…” I stammered.
He cut me off.
“Now don’t you worry about my wife. Soon enough, you’re going to have your own wife to worry about.”
“But I don’t want a wife. I want you.” Until that moment, he had been the stronger one. But he hesitated and then seemingly, all at once, whatever it was that had been holding him together first gave way, and then cracked altogether.
We fell into a deep kiss. Tears that had run down my cheek mixed together with his. In a flash, the feeling of love—and the sadness of my impending marriage—turned into a fiery ball of desire. Just like that, I was groping for him, reaching out for his nipples through his teacher’s uniform. I wanted him.
I want him. Oh God, I want him. And he wants me. He loves me. He really, really loves me.
Sensei tore at my clothes—he was my superior after all—and so, whatever he wants. Everything was all right in the world again. At least for as long as this went on.
I lost my breath when I felt his hand plunge down into my pants. Everything was definitely okay in the world. I want you, my sensei.
Somewhere deep in my mind, but not quite deep enough to pretend any longer that I didn’t hear it, whispered, ‘For now, Yoshio. You want him—for now.’
No, I thought. Not just for now—forever! I was trying to obliterate the small voice in me, and everything that I feared would come with it.
And then—sensei had his mouth wrapped around my penis. I closed my eyes and my knees went weak. I couldn’t think anymore. I couldn’t think of anything at all.
After a while, we tumbled into a small room just a few feet off the main one. It was supposed to be a private study for the sensei of the class. How many times had we made love here, on the small desk in this room? Or bent over it, with my hands thrust up against the wall waiting for him to come inside me? All these memories from this tight, little space in sensei’s hideaway.
I couldn’t remember.
I didn’t care.
I just wanted him now. I wanted him forever.
I just wanted him.
And then, it was done.
It was done. At first I felt the quiet contentedness, the billowy, pillow-like feeling that always came after. Maybe love, or something like it. Its warmth enveloped me, it filled me up. Whereas just a few minutes before, I had only the desire to fuck—well, to fuck and be fucked, actual
ly—now, I just wanted to hold him. To hold him, and to be held.
This is how I remember things have always been with sensei.
He had been my first love, but there was something in me that had always known he was the right one for me. I had never felt guilt over the relationship. I had never really felt uncomfortable in any way—except when sensei felt uncomfortable. And even that was only very occasionally, like the one time when his wife had told him she was moving back in with her parents—and even then, it had only been a short time until his mood had passed.
But now, today, I felt there was something different here. Something… I had expected, maybe, but not so soon.
There was an emptiness I started to feel now, and a loneliness as well, and… there was something else too… Something, but I couldn’t quite understand yet what this feeling was.
It had started out as just the smallest thought, far beneath the fading lust now that sensei and I had both come and finished cleaning up the floor by the desk. Underneath I felt just the smallest, tiniest flicker start to percolate up.
It’s time to move forward Yoshio, I thought. It’s time to leave.
“What are your plans Yoshio-san?” he asked me, snapping me suddenly out of the thoughts I had drifted into. He was caressing my face now with both his hands. God his hands were soft.
“The wedding is at the end of the summer, and then I begin at the university in Kyoto in the fall.”
“That is good, you are lucky. You will be married. If you work at it, you may even succeed at becoming a father while you are away at university, so there will be no questions… so that your wife won’t pressure you.”
“But I don’t—”
“You will be away, with your studies, in the city. No pressure to come home, and if you’re lucky, your wife will be pregnant again, and then you’ll have no pressure to ever do it again. Your duty to her will be done. You will be able to focus on your studies. With the other boys…”
He looked up at me as if to empathize the last word.
