We’re both on the bus doing well. I love you, I tapped back along with a string of heart emoticons. The fact that Michael had messaged me meant he’d cooled off. It was better going into Tohoku with neutral language from him than nothing.
I waited for an answering text, but it didn’t come. Since the battery was already down to 70 percent, I clicked off the phone and pulled out my water bottle. My slight hunger reminded me of the senbei in my jacket. As I tore open a cellophane wrapper, the young man with cockscomb hair looked at me. He’d exchanged seats with someone and was now closer. I imagined that he could probably smell the aroma of the savory crackers.
Remembering the unwitting favor he’d done for Hachiko, I offered the second cracker page to him. “Please, go ahead. I’ve got more in my bag.”
“Ie, ore daijobu desu.” As the young man politely declined with “No, I’m okay,” I caught his Tohoku dialect, which before now I’d only heard when traveling to auctions or watching TV dramas.
“But our journey is several more hours, and who know what we’ll have to eat when we arrive? Please take it.”
“Itadakimasu.” Taking the package, he bobbed his head and murmured the phrase that meant, “I gratefully receive this food,” which every proper Japanese person said before eating.
“Are you volunteering till Sunday or longer?” I asked after we’d each finished chewing. I found it amazing how delicious a freshly made cracker could taste.
“I will not return to Tokyo.” Seeing my surprise, he added, “I’ve been in Tokyo for almost a year, but my family lives in Sugihama. They need me now and perhaps for a long time.”
I’d guessed right that he was a northeast boy. “Are they okay? Your family, I mean.”
“My parents’ house is in the hills just outside of town, so the property came through fine. Some windows broke from the quake, but that was all. But my sister and her two daughters were in a low-rise apartment building near the harbor. They didn’t make it.”
“I’m so sorry!” Now I wished I hadn’t been so nosy. My neighbor’s composure was gone, and he wiped a hand across his eyes.
“If I hadn’t moved away, I could have saved them,” he muttered. “Little children are hard to move quickly by yourself. My nieces were age one and three.”
A tear rolled down his cheek, and I felt a familiar, awful prickling in my own. Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Hachiko stirred. She sniffed in the direction of the man, stiffened, and made a low growl.
“Hachiko!” I was upset that she might make a grieving man feel worse. “I’m sorry, but I think she might be tired or hungry.”
“What’s her name?”
“Hachiko. You know, like the famous dog statue in Shibuya. She’s actually a very sweet dog.”
“If she’s hungry, I can give this to her.” He showed me that he had a cracker fragment left.
“She’s got plenty of her own treats.” I reached in my coat pocket and took out one of the sweet-potato biscuits from the vet’s office. “Here, Hachiko. Yes, sweetie, just one snack until it’s breakfast time.” I yawned. “I suppose four a.m. would be harder if I wasn’t still operating on Hawaiian time.”
“I should introduce myself—after your kindness of sharing food,” the young man said. “My name is Rikyo Akira.”
“I’m Shimura Rei.” As Hachiko munched away, I explained that I’d traveled from Honolulu to find Hachiko’s owner, who’d had a head injury and might be in a shelter in Yamagawa.
Akira looked at me intently. “What is your friend’s name?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t know him. He’s an elderly gentleman from Tokyo who had the bad luck to be here attending an auction when the earthquake hit.”
“There’s an antique auction house right in Sugihama that opened a year or two ago. Maybe that’s where he went. What is your friend’s name?” he repeated.
“Ishida Yasushi,” I said, surprised by Akira’s concern. “I heard there’s an injury shelter at a recreation center.”
“If you’re going to Yamagawa, try finding the Morito Recreation Center. That’s a nice, large facility for sports. It’s too many miles from the water for the wave to have hit.”
“Thanks,” I said, surprised. “You know a lot about the area.”
He shrugged. “When I played on my middle school’s basketball team, we had games there. Yamagawa and Sugihama are only two miles apart.”
“So you like basketball?” I continued, glad to have found a less loaded topic than the death of his sister and nieces.
“I’m tall for someone in Japan, so I did pretty well. But I stopped playing in high school.”
“Japanese high school is so demanding.” I felt sympathetic.
“It’s a bit different than that. My father and mother wanted more help with our family business—since I was getting older.”
“Was their business inside Sugihama?”
“No. My father’s a carpenter, and his workshop is near the house. I was working construction in Tokyo, but now that I’m home, I’ll help him repair people’s homes and shops. It’s too much for one person.”
Now I noticed how his leather jacket stretched over broad, strong shoulders; Akira was as buff as any construction worker I’d seen in Western Oahu. Smiling, I said, “It sounds like you’re probably the most essential person heading to Sugihama. No wonder Yano-san took you at the last minute.”
I expected Akira to chat a bit more, but he only gave a slight nod and closed his eyes, just as Mrs. Endo had. I got the message. I was being too American and talking all over the place, while all the Japanese people understood this journey meant hours of precious rest before the onslaught of hard work.
Even Hachiko had the good sense to sleep. I let the rise and fall of the dog’s body guide my own breath. This relaxation practice must have worked, because the next time I opened my eyes, the bus had stopped moving.
“Look at that!” One of the college girls sounded horrified.
“Unbelievable…” Her friend’s voice trailed off.
The sky was light enough to reveal we were driving through the midst of what had recently been civilization. But mud covered the entire landscape. Dropped into filth were a variety of cars, uprooted trees, parts of houses, and many small silver scraps that I realized were fish.
The bus slowly zigzagged through, tires protesting against the mud. Mr. Yano sat behind the driver, leaning in and offering words of encouragement.
“So many fish.” Mrs. Endo had finally wakened, and her eyes widened as she gazed out the window. “The wave must have thrown them all on land.”
And not taken them back. How many millions of fish and other sea creatures had been flung ashore to die? Crows circled and dived, enjoying their feast.
I watched a pair of Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force sailors wearing sinister-looking respirators force open the door of a Toyota hatchback, unleashing a miniflood of dirty water and fish. The men were carefully pulling out something using a plastic tarp. Judging from the bit of pink coat that showed itself from under the mud, I guessed the decomposed body was female. The next corpse to emerge was much smaller, with a dangling Mickey Mouse backpack. I thought this was the worst thing I’d ever seen—until the appearance of an even tinier body, with feet that suddenly flashed a thin ribbon of lights.
Toddler sneakers. My mind went to Akira’s dead sister and nieces. I turned my head and saw Akira was looking in the same direction. Noticing my consternation, he muttered, “Not them. They were already found.”
One sailor walked around with a notebook, stopping at the license plate to write it down. Another tied a ribbon to the car’s side mirror and used a marker to write “3” on the driver’s door.
I shut my eyes, wishing I’d never looked.
Chapter 11
I didn’t dare look at any more cars with soldiers nearby as the bus slogged onward. The mud lessened as we moved upland, and a road finally emerged from the dirt. We traveled on it another mile, until the driver stopped at
a cluster of stucco buildings. Mud and seawater had painted them a horrid, greenish-brown shade from ground level up to about three feet. Mr. Yano turned around to announce this was the volunteer headquarters and tsunami survivors’ shelter. Then he thanked the driver for his service.
Everyone politely applauded the driver, but there was no hurry to get off the bus. When the narrow door opened, a sickening, fishy odor flowed in, and people slapped on the gauze facial masks typically worn when having a cold or hay fever. I hadn’t thought to pack such a mask, and it was no surprise that Akira also was maskless. But as I stood in the bus’s center aisle, trying hard not to inhale, Mrs. Endo dug into her purse and handed a new, plastic-wrapped mask to each of us.
“I always carry extras, neh?”
Once I’d thanked her and slipped the softness over my nose and mouth, I debated whether there was any lessening of the evil smell. It didn’t seem like much.
Mr. Yano’s voice was muffled as he spoke through his own gauze mask into the microphone, introducing the town’s mayor, a fellow who’d come out of the dingy compound to greet us.
Mayor Kazuo Hamasaki was dressed for work in a hard hat, reflective vest, and rubber boots, with a respirator hanging around his neck. He welcomed us, explaining that the volunteers’ sleeping dormitory would be up on the second floor of the school district headquarters building. The staircase was still too damaged to use, so we would all use a fire ladder set up on the western side of the building.
“Can your dog climb a ladder?” a woman whispered to me, looking worriedly at Hachiko.
“I may have to camp out below with her.” But I didn’t want to. The stench made my throat close and head spin.
“Where are all the townspeople?” Yano-san inquired. It was strange that the mayor was the only one we’d seen.
“Many are outside searching for lost relatives or trying to clean mud from their homes.” Mayor Hamasaki’s serious expression grew even more sober. “If the homes are not habitable, they are staying inside the shelter here, which is normally used as Sugihama High School.”
“Have they eaten much today?” Mr. Yano asked.
“They’ve had cereal bars and water. So far, all provisions have been provided by the Japanese and American military forces.”
“As promised, we have brought fresh food and will cook hot meals.” Yano-san’s cheer sounded forced. “We have portable stoves and plenty of propane fuel.”
Nurse Tanaka came forward now and gave a little half bow. She said something in a low voice to the mayor, and I caught the words potto: the polite way to say “portable toilet.”
“I’m sorry,” Mayor Hamasaki answered. “The government hopes to bring some of those soon for everyone.”
Where would we relieve ourselves? Some volunteers exchanged worried glances, but there was no complaining.
I was diverted by Hachiko, who was tugging hard on the leash, interested in something a few feet away. Following her movement, I saw an eviscerated, stinking fish being picked at by a crow.
Why did Hachiko like this fish? I wondered, shortening my hold on Hachiko’s leash. There were so many dead fish. Then I realized: she was interested in the crow.
Hachiko saw life in the midst of all this death. She saw the opportunity to hunt.
And that was what I needed to concern myself about, too.
Akira insisted on bringing my backpack and duffel up the ladder to the second floor of the building. Returning to Hachiko and me a few minutes later, he said, “It’s not bad up there; at least all the windows are closed. I’m going to my family now. Good luck with everything.”
“Thanks. If you’re doing carpentry around town, I might see you again.” Following him out, I gave Hachiko a bowl of kibble and a very short walk.
As we returned to the volunteer shelter, I saw Nurse Tanaka waving energetically. She called, “Yano-san, the mayor and I were talking about you.”
I felt my stomach drop. Maybe they’d decided there was no way Hachiko could stay with the volunteer crew. That she needed to be confined to a holding area for random animals.
“Oh, Hachiko,” I whispered, reaching down to stroke her. How quickly she’d captivated me.
“The mayor suggested I tend to some injured tsunami survivors in Yamagawa this afternoon,” Nurse Tanaka said. “Didn’t you say your missing friend might be there?”
“Yes. Can you check?” But I desperately wanted to go with her.
“Please plan on accompanying me after lunch.”
Had she read my mind? “Thank you!”
“Before we leave, I believe you’ve been put on kitchen duty, making the hot lunch. We hope to have a meal prepared for two hundred people in less than three hours, so this will mean working quickly.”
Unlike our volunteer headquarters, the high school that had become the survivors’ shelter was in an area just elevated enough not to have flooded. Therefore, the first floor gymnasium had become a sleeping zone, and the school kitchen, although devoid of electricity, was still a big, decent workspace. I tied Hachiko’s leash to the railing of the kitchen door, suggesting to her that she settle down in an empty cardboard box that had held potatoes. Fortunately, she liked its smell.
The school’s kitchen was a medium-sized room with a dead refrigerator and no working lights. It was so cold, though, that a refrigerator was hardly needed. Nobuko-san, a round-faced woman in her early thirties, was designated as the head cook, based on her real profession in Yokohama. She asked me to pull groceries from the seven boxes of food supplies brought up on the bus. The potatoes were already being peeled by Yuki and Reiko, the dog-loving students I’d met on the bus, so I got to work chopping yams and then chopping onions. The rest of the stew’s flavor would come from miso and the dried seagreen called kombu. By the time Yuki and Reiko had properly recounted the various problems with their parents, boyfriends, and professors, twenty pounds of vegetables were simmering in five giant tureens that bubbled energetically atop propane camp stoves. A teakettle also was on. Miss Nobuko explained we could offer green tea and serve it with packaged crackers while the stew was cooking.
“They need warmth—and tea will fill their bellies a bit as they wait for lunch,” she told us.
I was dispatched to spread the news of a coming meal among the families staying at the school. It was a short walk uphill to the school. Inside, the families had staked out spaces inches from each other, defined only by dark green military blankets and borders made from pieces of cardboard boxes. People looked exhausted and somehow very small, like they’d shrunken to fit their miserable little pens.
But my offer of tea was welcome and quickly repeated from one boxed space to another. As if following the directions of an unseen teacher, the tsunami survivors fit themselves into a line and proceeded quietly behind me to the auditorium, where Yuki and Reiko served hot tea that was replaced an hour later by stew. I carefully served one cup of stew per person into cardboard bowls. Everyone gave profuse thanks.
About half the stew we’d cooked was left after the first round, but before I could offer anyone seconds, Nobuko-san told me to take away the partially filled tureens. Seeing my dismay she explained, “We will each have one bowl for our own lunch, and the remainder will be brought to feed people at the injured persons’ shelter.”
I’d been so busy with cooking and serving that I’d almost forgotten the afternoon plan. But instead of feeling eager, I was strangely anxious. I might find Mr. Ishida seriously or irreversibly injured. Our reunion could be the start of a long period of caretaking. There was also a strong chance he wasn’t still at this shelter, but at a hospital or somewhere else.
After finishing every drop of the savory stew, I threw away the paper bowl and went behind the kitchen to see how Hachiko was doing. She’d fallen asleep in the box, shivering despite her coat.
As I petted her, a couple of dark green jeeps pulled up with two American soldiers in each. Encouraging Hachiko to come along with me, I went to greet two uniformed Amer
icans in the first jeep. Pulling down my face mask, I said, “Hi. Are you our ride to Yamagawa?”
The soldier in the driver’s seat took off his respirator to answer me. “You bet,” he said, revealing a face so young it still was dusted with acne. “We heard a couple of folks were going over to work with us this afternoon.”
His companion climbed out of the jeep’s other side and put out his hand for me to shake. “I’m Sergeant Simonson. Private McDonald’s my driver. Are you American? We didn’t know any civilian nurses were here.”
“Actually, Nurse Tanaka is Japanese and comes from a hospital in Tokyo. I’ll have to find her,” I said. “I’m just coming along to help with serving a hot lunch.” I gave him my name and said I’d flown over from Hawaii.
“Hawaii!” Sgt. Simonson looked pleased. “I was posted at Schofield Barracks last year. Are you also a canine handler? What kinda mutt you got there?”
“Hachiko’s part beagle and part Akita—and no, I’m not a dog pro, but would you let me bring Hachiko along for the ride? I’m trying to reunite her with her owner.”
“I don’t see why she can’t come along. Is her owner also an American?”
“No, he’s an elderly gentleman from Tokyo.” As Sgt. Simonson and Private McDonald came back and forth to the shelter with me, helping bring boxes of medical supplies and food, I explained about Mr. Ishida’s call for help. As we worked, Miss Tanaka hurried out to join us, dressed in a white uniform complete with an old fashioned nurse’s cap and carrying a doctor’s bag.
“So glad you can take us,” she said. “Sergeant Simonson, I understand you are a medical corpsman who has already been to the injured shelter? I would like to hear about the general challenges of this population.”
Hachiko sat politely, but with her nose quivering, between Nurse Tanaka and me in the back of McDonald and Simonson’s jeep, while the second jeep, packed to the roof with supplies and food, followed. We reached Morito Recreation Center after a half hour’s drive, although the distance was only five miles. My heart rate quickened at the sight of the single-story brick building. This could be the end of the road for me; the place Hachiko and I would find Mr. Ishida. I swallowed hard, thinking: Let him still be there—and well enough to return to Tokyo.
The Kizuna Coast: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mysteries Book 11) Page 8
