He was wearing black bike shorts and a red T-shirt with the sleeves cut short enough to reveal most of his muscular arms. His helmet was looped over the back of his chair by its strap.
“How do you say hello in Japanese?” he asked when he finished bowing.
I reined in my grin and bowed. “The Japanese don’t really have a word for hello.”
“Then what would I say?”
I sat down. I took a moment to smell the cappuccino, then another to savor the sumptuousness of my first sip.
I’d been looking forward to this meeting. Even though I knew it was ridiculous, I’d changed my clothes three times before I left the house today. When I saw her at the bus stop, I even had this crazy urge to ask Cynthia if I could borrow one of her hot little tennis outfits. As if I could pull that off.
I’d started out with yoga pants, which made me look athletic but not very professional. Then I tried on my one good suit, which was relatively flattering, but seemed way too formal for meeting someone who invariably wore bicycle attire. I didn’t have a lot of choices in my closet, so I finally settled for my old standby—the Anthropologie skirt and a teal cap-sleeved T-shirt with a V-neck.
I knew time was running out with Billy Sanders. I probably should have cut him loose once I had the business cards made and placed an ad on Craigslist for a go-between to help him out in Japan. Or maybe even stretched it to two more as-yet-unscheduled future sessions—one on the phone once he was in Japan, and one to reassess and talk about his next steps once he returned. Though once he’d found a good go-between, he really shouldn’t need me anymore.
But I couldn’t quite make myself back away. Instead, I found myself thinking that if I spent some more time learning Japanese, and maybe even researching the bicycle industry, I could make myself legitimately valuable.
Maybe there were even some other countries Billy would want to consider for bicycle rental kiosks before he made a final decision. Bicycles were popular in lots of places besides Japan—Denmark, the Netherlands, Switzerland, Italy, Spain, Germany, France, Belgium, and Australia, just to name a few.
It wasn’t that I wanted to take advantage of him, but it was a good gig and it paid well. He was a nice guy, too, and easy to talk to. It would be great to find more ways to work with him.
Last night, as I finished my final sips of wine, I’d fantasized about leaving Anastasia with Seth long enough to go to Japan with Billy as his go-between. Maybe if I could somehow talk him into postponing the trip for a year or two, or even three, I could make it work.
Since Japan was such a traditional culture, and business was still pretty much a man’s world over there, ideally the go-between should be male and not female. But I thought the fact that Billy trusted me and knew I’d be looking out for his best interests might make up for any cultural awkwardness my gender presented. And if I had a few years, I could probably learn to speak passable Japanese.
I put my paper cup back down on our table. “You’d greet the person by name, or in this case, you might say good afternoon. That would be Koh-NEE-cheewah.”
Billy nodded. “Koh-NEE-cheewah,” he said carefully.
“Perfect,” I said. Since I hadn’t actually started learning more Japanese yet, I took another sip of cappuccino while I searched for something else I could still remember in Japanese. My short stint as a tour guide in Asia was now a distant memory, and we’d had a translator at each stop.
I’d also blocked most of my Japanese memories, since that’s where Seth and I had met. Sometimes a picture would come on television, a sky bus in Kyoto or cherry blossoms at Takada Koen Park, and I’d have to close my eyes.
“Koh-NEE-cheewah,” Billy said. “Koh-NEE-cheewah, koh-NEE-cheewah.”
“Even better,” I said. “Okay, now if you want to say, ‘My name is Billy Sanders,’ you’d say, ‘Wah-TAHK-sheewah Billy Sanders.’”
“Wah-TAHK-sheewah Billy Sanders,” he said slowly. “Wah-TAHK-sheewah Billy Sanders.”
“Great,” I said. “Now put them both together.” I had no idea if this was something you’d actually do in Japanese, but I’d look it up later.
Billy closed his eyes and concentrated. I watched the way the crinkles at the corners of his eyes crisscrossed the raccoon circles made by his sunglasses.
He opened his eyes and caught me staring. He smiled.
I looked away and took a quick sip of my cappucino.
“Okay,” he said. “Koh-NEE-sheewah. Wah-TAHK-cheewah Billy Sanders.”
“Close,” I said. “But it’s Koh-NEE-cheewah and Wah-TAHK- sheewah.”
“Jeez,” he said. “They sure don’t make it easy, do they?”
I ran a finger around the lip of my coffee cup. “It’s a tough language for Americans. But most of the people you’ll be discussing business possibilities with will speak English, and as long as they see that you’re making an effort, you’ll be fine. And your go-between will help you.”
Billy leaned forward. “That reminds me,” he said. “I think I’ve found someone.”
For a split second, I thought he meant a girlfriend. I could even picture her. She was blond and tan, with long, lean, athletic legs, and expensive streaks in her hair, and she had a whole wardrobe of tennis outfits. Actually, she looked a lot like Cynthia. I had to admit, I didn’t really think this woman was Billy’s type.
“Wait,” I said. “You mean a go-between?”
Billy nodded.
“Great,” I said. I supposed in some ways a go-between was better than an incompatible girlfriend, though in other ways it was worse. “But are you sure you shouldn’t wait until you get a few more replies so you can compare the candidates?”
He grinned. “It actually wasn’t my first response. I also got an invitation to a Japanese love hotel, and an e-mail from someone who claimed to be a certified geisha.”
“Gotta love Craigslist,” I said.
Billy took the cover off his cappuccino and scooped up the last of the foam with a straw. “But this guy sounds like the real deal.”
I felt a little flash of relief at guy. “Is he Japanese?”
“He didn’t say, but I don’t think so. It was definitely an American name. Maybe he’s Japanese American.” He put the straw down and patted his hip. “I meant to bring his e-mail to show you….” He reached inside his waistband and pulled out a check. “Sorry, I almost forgot this.”
Our fingers brushed when he handed it to me. “Thanks,” I said. I couldn’t believe I’d actually forgotten about the check.
His eyes met mine. “I’m going to meet with him later this week. Do you want to come with me?”
I rummaged in my bag for a notebook and pen. “I think it’s probably better if you meet with him yourself, so the relationship is between the two of you. I’ll write down a few questions for you though.”
“Okay,” he said. “How about dinner and a movie sometime then?”
I looked up from my list. “Me?” I said.
He burst out laughing.
I tried to stop myself from blushing, but it only made it worse.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to laugh. You just looked so surprised. Of course, I meant you.”
When I went back to my list, my hand was shaking. I put my pen down and clasped my hands together under the table. “Um,” I said. “It’s just that I don’t really leave my daughter very much. She’s still pretty young.”
Billy crinkled his eyes. “How old is she?”
“Ten.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Well, I guess the good news is in a couple of years you won’t have to leave her. She’ll leave you.”
I heard a big puff of breath escape my lips, like when you blow out air on a frozen winter’s day. “I guess maybe that’s my plan,” I said. I thought I was talking normally, but when it came out, it was barely louder than a whisper.
His raccoon eyes held mine. “Don’t you think…,” he said.
I could feel my eyes start to tear up.
“Never mind,” he said. “What about lunch and a bike ride on a school day?”
“Sure,” I said. “I guess I could do that. Except for the fact that I don’t have a bike.”
“Now,” he said, “there’s a problem I can fix.”
17
SOMETHING WAS DIFFERENT. THE RUSTY METAL RAILINGS leading to my house were down. Not only down, but completely gone. I walked across the little lawn to the front walkway. Sure enough, the posts had been cut off almost down to the cement, then taped over with silver duct tape. The duct tape would probably keep my house from getting a spread in Good House keeping, but I was pretty sure it was a step up from the rusty metal railings.
The front lawn was completely free of rusted metal scraps, too. I could even see faint lines from the tines of a rake on the patches of dirt not covered by grass or dandelions.
I just stood there. It had been so long since anyone had done anything like this for me, I actually found myself wondering if some random metal railing thief was making his way through my neighborhood.
Cynthia’s door slammed. “Hey, girlfriend,” she yelled as she cut across her yard to mine.
“Aww,” I said. “Did you do this?”
She giggled. “Actually, I only watched him.”
The Huli Huli leftovers and everything else in the bag I was still holding were getting heavy. “Who?” I said.
Cynthia gestured toward my house with a swing of her bangs. “He left a note on the door. It’s probably a love letter. Nice ass, by the way.”
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“I’m certainly not going to let the cute guy out of the bag.” She headed back in the direction of her house. “You can’t miss it,” she yelled over her shoulder. “It’s tucked under the front door.”
I picked up the note on my way into the house and threw it on the kitchen counter. I turned the burner on under the tea-kettle. I went to the bathroom. I made a mug of tea. Finally I sat down at the kitchen table with my tea and opened the note. It was written on a thin white rectangular napkin, the kind you get with a take-out order. I turned it back over again on the table, the writing side down.
I closed my eyes.
Seeing Seth’s handwriting again—the large, open letters slanting optimistically to the right—made me remember the note he’d left when he took off. It was a scrawl really, the last note, so unlike the sweet love notes he’d sometimes leave under my pillow on a birthday or anniversary, or next to the coffee-maker on the kitchen counter of our tiny apartment when he left for work while Anastasia and I were still sleeping.
That last note didn’t say much, but the small, cramped letters, so rushed they barely grazed the paper, didn’t even seem as if they’d been formed by Seth’s hand. During the first few months after he was gone, I daydreamed an elaborate series of fantasies all centering around the fact that maybe Seth hadn’t written the note voluntarily, or perhaps even written it at all.
Seth had been kidnapped at gunpoint by some crazy person, and the only way he could protect Anastasia and me was to throw us off the trail with a hastily written note. He was on a secret mission for something really important, and his specific knowledge was key to the project. It was such a crucial project that he hadn’t even had time to write the note himself, but when he got back, he’d explain everything, and it would all make sense.
Other fantasies were less heroic. He’d been living a double life and had another family stashed somewhere. He couldn’t take the duplicity anymore and the other family had won out. It was hard for me to picture his other kids being smarter or cuter than Anastasia, but I could easily imagine his other wife being less stressed and more fun. Maybe she was prettier, or maybe the sex was better, or at least more frequent.
After a while, I just stopped trying to figure it out. Seth was gone, and obviously, I’d never really known him at all. Without Anastasia as physical evidence that he’d at least pretended to love me and even married me, I might have even convinced myself I’d made him up.
One full week, exactly seven days, after Seth left, I lit a candle and held the note over it. I watched the flame eat its way through the paper, section by section, as I repositioned it. When my fingers started to burn, I went into the bathroom to get some tweezers so I could make sure every scrap turned to ash.
But by then, the entire note was seared forever into my brain:
I can’t do this anymore. Tell Asia I love her. Sorry, Seth.
I picked up the new note. Everything in me wanted to burn it before I even read it. Maybe I could take it outside and borrow a little pink blowtorch from Cynthia so I could set it ablaze with a ceremonial flare. Maybe Seth would come back just as I was getting going, and I could turn the blowtorch on him, too. Not enough to disfigure him, since after all, he was Anastasia’s father, but maybe to singe him a little. And to scare the shit out of him.
I wished I were a better person, but it was hard not to want to see him suffer.
There is a Hopi word Oookywah that roughly translated means, “I feel what you are feeling.” The Hopis believe you can heal your suffering with the compassion in your heart.
I didn’t have a clue what Seth was feeling now, or what he’d ever felt. I no longer even cared. To prove it, I turned the note over again and made myself read it.
Jill—
I had some extra time, so I got this started for you. I taped over the rough edges so A. wouldn’t get hurt. I’ll stop by to put the new railings up later this week as time allows—will check first if I think you’re going to be home.
Wondering if I can come by this Sunday with some Thai food? I won’t stay long. Pls let me know.
Love to A. Seth
It was time for the school bus. I walked out and sat on my front steps, trying to look past the carefully taped-off post holes and the neatly raked yard. They had nothing to do with me. Any gesture Seth made, today or forever, would be all about Anastasia.
The bus pulled down the street. The neighborhood kids exited in one big pack, then separated to go to their individual homes.
“Bye, Treasure,” one of the kids yelled. “Bye, Asia.”
That certainly hadn’t taken very long.
18
CLEARLY, I WAS OVERTHINKING. I’D TRIED TO TALK BILLY Sanders into meeting me at Starbucks, but he’d insisted on picking me up at my house. So I’d been going back and forth about whether to invite him in when he got here, which could be awkward, or whether I should be waiting in the front yard when he pulled into my driveway, which might make me appear overanxious.
I was wearing sneakers and my favorite jeans, plus the third T-shirt I’d tried on. It was roomy enough that it wouldn’t ride up while I was on the bike, but not so loose as to be shapeless. It was a shade of blue that was saturated enough that it didn’t make me look totally washed out, but not so dark that it ould get too hot. I’d been checking the weather reports obsessively, and sun was the unanimous prediction.
It wasn’t really a date.
It was simply lunch and a bicycle ride, or a bicycle ride and lunch. Why hadn’t I thought to ask Billy which one was first? I knew he was picking me up at eleven, but what if we were going to ride for two hours before we ate, and I didn’t have enough energy to keep up, not that I could actually imagine myself riding a bike for two hours, no matter what I had or hadn’t eaten. But still, maybe I should have at least a snack first. Though if we went straight to lunch, then I’d have ruined my appetite.
I opened the refrigerator. There wasn’t much in there, and none of it looked the least bit appealing. I finally settled on an apple and a piece of string cheese. I ate the apple while I paced around my little house, then put the string cheese back in the refrigerator. I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth again. I decided the blue T-shirt was the wrong shade after all, so I rummaged through my drawers until I found one in sky blue.
I pulled off the blue and put on the lighter blue. I bent over and touched my toes to test it out. I could feel
it ride halfway up my back. I yanked it off and threw it on my unmade bed. I put the darker blue shirt back on again. I went into the bathroom and tried to undo the hair havoc wreaked by too many T-shirt changes.
I leaned forward and fluffed up my hair with my fingers. I stood up straight and flipped my head back. All I’d managed was to give myself some serious big hair. I looked like I hadn’t left the house since the ’80s. I patted my hair down closer to my scalp and this century.
I sat on the toilet and tried to pee, even though I didn’t really need to. I washed my hands, avoiding my eyes in the mirror, so I didn’t have to look at myself anymore. I didn’t think I looked bad, exactly, but after all these years spent ignoring myself and focusing on my daughter, how could I possibly look good?
Maybe Billy Sanders simply wanted to sell me a bike.
At 10:50, I still hadn’t decided whether to wait inside or outside. I ran into the bathroom and tried to pee one more time. I took my house key off the key ring. I also grabbed a twenty-dollar bill, so I could offer to pay my share at lunch, and my license and health insurance card, in case I got hit by a car while riding the bike. I put everything into separate pockets of my jeans, to balance the added bulk. I kept the key in one hand and my cell in the other, ready for a quick getaway.
I’d have liked to carry a few more things with me, maybe some tissues and lip gloss, even breath mints, but I was pretty sure fanny packs went out with big hair, and I didn’t know what else I had that might work. Anastasia’s old diaper bag? Her pink backpack from third grade? I knew it would look dorky to casually hook my purse over the handle bars. I also didn’t think I could count on the bike having a wicker basket on the front, like the one that carried Toto in The Wizard of Oz.
A car beeped in my driveway.
“Yoo-woo,” Cynthia yelled from outside my kitchen door a moment later.
I opened the door. For some reason I thought she was going to tell me Billy had changed his mind and couldn’t make it.
“Hey,” she said. “Wait till you see what the neighbor dragged in.”
Claire Cook Page 9
