“Which son?”
“Roderick Evans. He seemed excited, actually, to hear that my daughter in Tokyo needed to contact him on a matter regarding his father.”
“He doesn’t know what’s coming.” I worried aloud. “To find out one’s father had a second family in Japan…how can I tell him?”
“You’ll be fine. Rei,” my father said. “Trust yourself.”
Trust yourself. I brushed my teeth and walked around straightening things as I willed myself to call Roderick Evans. I wrote out a list of questions. I did fifty sit-ups and drank three glasses of water. Finally, I dialed Boston.
“Mr. Roderick Evans? This is Rei Shimura calling from Japan…”
“My late father’s favorite place in the world! I tell you, I’m sorry he isn’t here to talk to somebody living there. Call me Rod, will you?” Evans’s voice was warm and free of suspicion. My father must have done some job on him.
“I’m calling because I saw a copy of his obituary. It made its way over to the Navy community, some old chiefs saw it…”
“The Veterans’ Association, right? I mailed them the notice just as my father would have wanted. So, do you want information on his retirement years for the military newspaper or something?”
“Well, I’d love to hear about what happened.” I tried to stay evasive.
“He came back home and got married to Mom—the former Peg Miller, as the obit said—and he bought his own garage, had a real good business with that.”
A garage didn’t sound like big money to me. “Did he spend any time in Texas?”
“Nope. Well, he had a buddy who moved there. I think he visited once, but maybe that was for a mechanics’ convention. Why?”
“Well, there are some papers here…I work in the historic preservation field and have come across some letters without a proper signature. I have reason to believe they might be from your father.”
“We have a fax at the garage. Just send it and I’ll give you an answer Monday morning.”
“The fact is it’s rather sensitive. I was actually hoping you could send me his handwriting sample.”
“I don’t know about that.” His voice became more guarded. “What are you really looking for?”
“I’m trying to determine whether your father was connected to a Japanese woman.” I paused. “She was half-American, actually. Her name was Setsuko Ozawa Nakamura.”
“So what?”
“Well, she had no father listed on her birth certificate.” I held my breath, hoping he’d stay on the line.
There was a brief silence, and then Rod cleared his throat. “Are you trying to say my dad was her father? Of all the…I should just hang up.” He didn’t.
“I don’t know for sure, but someone at the Veterans’ Association thought maybe it could be him. I’m really sorry.” I gulped.
“I always wondered,” Rod said. “I always wondered why he looked at Oriental women on the street, right in front of my mom like she wasn’t even there.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeated.
There was another pause, and then Rod gave me a fax number. “You send me that letter. I’ll go in tonight to wait for it.”
“You will?”
“But if there are people out there making claims to his estate, tell them to forget about it. He’s got nothing, he recognizes nobody else in his will other than me and Marshall—”
“Nobody’s trying to sue anyone,” I said. “It might be the case that Setsuko was blackmailing him. Knowing what I do about her, that wouldn’t be surprising at all. Your father could be a victim of sorts—”
“Don’t patronize me, okay? Send the goddamn letter, and I’ll tell you what I think.”
I buried my face in my hands after it was over. What a screw-up I’d made of things. Roderick Evans had been so injured, so naked in his outrage. He couldn’t have had enough cunning to fly to Japan and kill Setsuko. I’d hit another roadblock.
I picked up the phone again and dialed the St. Luke’s number I now knew by heart.
“Room four-twenty-three, please,” I said.
“That room is unoccupied,” the operator told me.
“Did Mr. Glendinning change rooms again? This is Rei Shimura calling.”
“Oh, the cousin of Shimura-sensei! Don’t you know Mr. Glendinning is not here anymore? He left against doctor’s advice with a friend.”
“A friend?” I panicked, thinking how dangerous Yamamoto had become.
“Yes. He left with a woman in the early morning hours,” the receptionist confided. “The charge nurse was furious about it! This lady must have helped him down the stairway and out the front. By then it was too late to do anything.”
“Was the woman foreign or Japanese?”
“Gaijin. Shimura-sensei noticed her often during visiting hours. A blond woman in a long black and white gown and a fur coat.”
“Thank you very much,” I said, starting to hang up.
“Anytime, Shimura-san, and your cousin wants to know if you’ll be stopping in today? He’s working the afternoon shift and wants to see you.”
“Tell him I’ll try to come in.” I would have to make a major apology for my last outburst if I wanted to remain part of the Shimura family.
“Since the photographers aren’t outside anymore, visiting will be a lot more convenient for you!” the receptionist chirped, and even I had to laugh.
I kept my eyes out for stalkers on the way to Family Mart. When I made it inside, I made a silent, thankful prayer.
“A great picture today.” Mr. Waka held up the Yomiuri Shimbun with the page folded back to show a photograph of me being handed into the taxi by Joe the previous evening.
“Rei no ka rei sa,” Mr. Waka said. It was another play on the many meanings of my name—this time, it meant something like Rei’s beauty.
“No doubt an attempt at satire. What does the story say?” I scrabbled for change in my pocket to photocopy the envelope and letter.
“Well, it says you are very much a girl of adventure. You had an accident at the train station yesterday? Please be more careful. And there’s plenty of talk about your escort, Mr. Joe Roncolotta, the elderly Tokyo businessman. The journalist believes he bought the dress you were wearing because a teacher surely couldn’t afford it. There is mention of Mr. Roncolotta’s deceased Japanese wife and the various ladies he has known since that time—he is sixty-two years old! Frankly, I don’t think it’s a good idea!”
“Nothing’s going on,” I soothed, but he didn’t look happier.
“What about poor Mr. Glendinning waiting in the hospital room alone? Popular opinion has turned in his favor. People are feeling sorry for him now that you are going out with many men.”
“He’s not in the hospital anymore. He left with another woman. You’ll read about it if tomorrow is another slow news day.” I looked at the page in my hands, trying to determine if it was clear enough to fax through to America, Then my eyes lit on the moldy envelope.
“Do you want me to read the article to you?” Mr. Waka prodded. “Or the latest survey on Mr. Glendinning’s image?”
“Wait a minute.” I needed to hold on to the idea that was beginning to emerge. Why hadn’t I seen it before?
“What are you looking at?” Waka-san came out from behind his cauldron of oden and looked over my shoulder. “A letter from America?”
“This letter is addressed in care of the post office in Kawasaki.”
“Sure. There’s a private post office box number right there.”
I had gone to Kawasaki looking for a house when the post office was what I’d needed to find all along. The post office, which was probably harboring more mail for Setsuko, the last vital clue to her past.
“I didn’t know people in Japan even used post office boxes.”
“It’s unusual,” Mr. Waka nodded. “However, many people use the post office for their savings accounts—same rates as the bank and right in the neighborhood!”
“I bank
at Sanwa,” I said absently. “I’ve got to go there now—it closes at noon—”
“You’re going to Sanwa Bank?”
“No, the post office!”
“What about your fax?” Mr. Waka asked.
“Could you put it through for me? I’ll pay you when I get back.”
“But this is an international telephone number! I can only fax domestically.” He sucked the air between his teeth, the quintessential can’t-do it gesture.
“What?” I grabbed him by the shoulders. “Please. Can’t you re-set the fax? I’ll pay anything.”
“If I reprogram this, it will be so much trouble—”
“Waka-san, when everything works out the Yomiuri will be interviewing you.”
I put the pages in the proper order with a short note that included my telephone number. I hope I’m not ruining your life, I wrote and signed my name.
As I hurried through the tidy gray streets of Kawasaki, I thought about how the post office was a perfectly logical place for Setsuko to conduct her private mail liaison. It was a convenient stop on the way from Hayama to Tokyo, yet devoid of any chance of running into the neighbors. And she’d kept it for years, shielding her father from the knowledge she’d moved to a very pricey neighborhood.
I’d affixed my wig ahead of time, and riding the bus to the post office, my shiny tresses received a few approving glances. I hoped people would believe a woman my age was likely to have her own mailbox. Post Office Barbie, I thought.
I roamed the post office briefly before I saw the steel block of mailboxes with combination locks. When I located box 63992, I began twisting the dial. It didn’t work. I tried the combination six times before breaking down and taking the code out of my handbag to look at it again. Was there some trick in Japan? Weren’t all combinations right-left-right, the way every gym locker in my lifetime had worked?
Other customers were beginning to watch my struggle, so I gave up and went as innocently as I could to the main desk. I took a number and waited my turn with the others. It was a quarter to twelve when I was called up front.
“Excuse me, but I’m having some trouble getting into my post office box.” I threw up my hands as if that were the silliest thing in the world.
“Box number?” The clerk wearing a trainee button pulled a metal box with index cards from under the counter. Uncomputerized, as much of Japan still was.
“Six-three-nine-nine-two,” I said.
The woman rummaged for a minute, came up with a card, and read it with a sober expression. “Mrs. Ozawa, your box is closed because the last two months’ rent was not paid.”
“I’m sorry, I was away,” I said, which was true enough. “What do I owe you?”
“Eight-thousand yen.”
I winced at the figure and dug fruitlessly into my bag for cash. Why hadn’t I stopped at my bank first?
“I’m sorry, I don’t have that much money with me.” And even if the Japanese post office accepted charge cards, mine said Rei Shimura.
The clerk looked surprisingly sympathetic. “If you like, we could start automatic deductions from your savings account. That way you won’t have this problem again.”
“My savings account?” I asked, feeling slightly giddy. “What a great idea!”
“I can fill out the application for you now—”
She scribbled on a form laden with kanji and pushed it toward me. As I took out a pen she made a command that stopped me cold.
“You must use your hanko.”
I would have looked for Setsuko Nakamura’s name seal in her house if I had known what was coming. As it was, I’d have to bluff and use my own. If I could somehow manage to blur the seal, it might go unnoticed.
I took out my seal and plunged it into the plush ink pad set on the counter. Then I stamped where she indicated, applying more pressure than needed. What I’d made looked like a Rorschach blot; it was pretty hard to make out that it said anything. To my relief the clerk just filed it and gave me a receipt. I stared down at the paper, reading Setsuko’s remaining account balance: 3.2 million yen. Here was the result of all those traded-back dresses, safe from her husband’s hands.
“We’ll take the interior lock off the mailbox, and on Monday you can use it again. In the meantime, here’s a claim slip for your mail. Go to counter number five.”
I obeyed her, noting that it was now five minutes to noon and almost everyone was gone. There were two customers waiting ahead of me in line when the public address system began playing “Auld Lang Syne.” The clerk slapped a closed sign on the counter, and the smattering of customers dispersed. I went straight up to the counter.
“I’m sorry, maybe okyaku-sama didn’t hear we are closed.” Even though the male clerk was referring to me as an honorable customer, his tone was decidedly starchy.
“I cannot leave until I pick up my mail.” I placed the claim slip in front of him.
“This section is closed,” he repeated.
I didn’t move until he finally shrugged and walked off with my slip. He came back with a slim packet of letters. “Next time, come before the last minute, please.”
I thanked him profusely with a toss of my plastic mane and hurried out the post office, scanning the envelopes. Two were addressed in Japanese and one was in English, from a Miami law firm called Mulroney, Simms, and Schweiger.
I wanted to read the English letter fast. I ran across the intersection just as the pedestrian crossing music had stopped and charged into a Mosburger shop where I sat down at the counter. In the midst of teen-agers munching odorous hamburgers, I slit open the envelope and pulled out a crisp sheet of paper dated December 20.
Dear Ms. Ozawa:
This letter is to update you on developments regarding the institution of a patrimony suit against the estate of Mr. R.P.S.
Our office has conducted some preliminary investigations, as per your request on November 3 about the basis for bringing about a suit and the likelihood of its success. Although the possibility that you might prevail cannot be ruled out entirely, we do not think that the evidence is strong enough to support your contentions.
The documents you sent to our office, personal letters spanning 25 years, were all signed as “Father.” Without a formal signature or other evidence of identity, the case would be dismissed for failing to meet the burden of proof necessary to institute an action against the estate. It may be possible to conduct handwriting analysis; however, even this approach would have to overcome strong objections and contrary evidence that would be produced by the defense. Additionally, since there is no mention of you in the will, the estate will make the obvious argument that the deceased had no intention of including you in his will.
On a side issue, regarding your communications with the wife of the deceased, I urge you to not make further efforts to contact her. My private investigator has determined that, contrary to your beliefs, she is not a frail widow with a passive attitude toward your views. It was our impression that she is a rather vigorous person who has expressed considerable anger upon learning of you and the letters you have written to her son and daughter.
I trust you will let matters rest as I have recommended. Please feel free to contact us if you are in need of further assistance.
Very truly yours,
James R. Mulroney
Attorney at Law
I jammed the letter back into its envelope, cursing myself for all the work that could have been spared had I gotten to the post office faster. I found a pay phone and inserted a telephone card which just had four units left. I wouldn’t have time for a long conversation with Hugh.
An answering machine came on in an English woman’s cool tones. I would have thought it a wrong number, but for the fact I recognized the voice as Winnie Clancy’s. Had she moved in to take care of Hugh? I left a brief message and told him I’d call from home.
“It’s me,” I said when Mr. Waka appeared to look straight through me after I walked into Family Mart thirty-five minutes later
.
“Your hair—” his eyes bugged out.
“It’s a wig.” I flipped the long hair back over my shoulders.
“You look more Japanese now.” From the way he pressed his lips together, I could tell it wasn’t something he approved of. “I’m tired of your running in and out. Won’t you stay for a cup of oden?”
The pot looked even murkier than usual. “I’m on a New Year’s diet, so I better take a couple of rice-balls. Did the fax go through?”
“Yes, but if you waste away, you won’t be able to hold up those fancy dresses. Do you miss your American food? How about a hotto doggu?”
“No thanks, I don’t eat meat,” I said, unwrapping the sweet tofu and rice snack.
“It’s no good, not healthy. In Japan, we believe in eating thirty different foods every single day! Meat, fish, rice, pickles, soy beans—”
“I’ve got to hurry. But I’ve a feeling that the next time you see me I’ll be in a better mood,” I promised, discarding the plastic wrappers in his waste-basket.
“Come back then, neh? And stay out of the tabloids,” Waka-san called after me.
33
It was two in the afternoon when I arrived home, midnight in Miami. I would call and leave a message on the law firm’s answering machine.
Opening the unlocked door to my apartment, I looked toward my answering machine and saw the message light was on. Hurriedly kicking off my shoes, I started to trip and reached out a hand to steady myself on a tall lantern. My hand went through shji paper, taking the lantern down with me. I moaned, feeling as bad about the ruined antique as the pain shooting through my knee.
“Careful.”
I looked up and saw Marcelle Chapman in her familiar zebra coat.
“Oh! Richard must have let you in,” I said, thinking how strange it was for her to be looking down on me like this.
“No, he went out an hour ago. But Mariko’s here.”
I followed Mrs. Chapman’s gaze to my futon. Mariko was lying in a fetal position, her wrists and ankles bound with electrical tape. She did not move.
“It didn’t have to happen. If it wasn’t for your meddling, I would have been out of here weeks ago.” Mrs. Chapman’s voice broke.
The Salaryman's Wife Page 31
