Falling into the Dragon's Mouth

by Holly Thompson

  I don’t think you meant it

  Cora says

  and for that I take off

  before she’s ready

  flying downhill

  ahead of her yells—

  Jason! Wai …

  half-eaten by the wind

  I skirt the park

  and coast down

  weaving in and out

  back lanes

  and alleys

  keeping Cora

  just in sight

  not slowing till we reach

  the flats where the streetcar

  runs

  down

  the

  center

  of

  the

  road

  and the sea wind blasts

  from breaks

  between buildings

  I stop

  and Cora catches up

  whining between breaths

  about how fast I went

  about how this is so not an adventure

  about how I promised her an adventure every Wednesday

  if she’d go along with the plan of me watching her

  so Mom can teach extra classes

  so we’ll have enough money

  for me to switch to international school

  and I’m about to say

  forget it, let’s go home

  but just then a gust

  brings us the scent

  of grilled chicken

  and I think

  hey!

  grilled chicken

  can be an adventure

  this way

  I say

  and we cut through an alley

  to a street with

  greengrocers

  fish shops

  sweet shops

  and a tiny meat shop

  where the owner and his wife

  grill yakitori—

  skewers of chicken

  on charcoal fires

  they’re friendly

  not like some people

  in this part of town

  who talk too polite

  or stare at us

  with cold eyes

  for being different

  irasshaimase!

  the butcher and his wife call out

  what’ll you have today—liver?

  and I laugh, liking that they know

  what I don’t like

  they lean forward over the counter

  is she your sister? and when I nod

  the butcher’s wife says

  kawaī!—cute!

  like a doll!

  which Cora hates

  but she smiles

  plastic-like

  and nod-bows

  two skewers with scallions I say

  and for the young lady? the butcher asks

  we’ll share I say because

  I don’t have money for more

  he dips the skewers

  into a bin of sauce

  and sets them on the grill

  my mouth

  waters

  as we wait

  where are your friends?

  the butcher asks

  because sometimes I come

  with Yōhei and Shō

  juku I say—cram school

  not you? he asks

  and I groan because

  the last thing I want

  after school

  is more school

  already I have

  English group

  once a week

  Japanese tutor

  twice a week

  plus aikido

  twice a week

  and now Cora

  once a week

  the butcher hands over

  not two but three skewers

  sābisu he says—service

  meaning one is free

  I hand two to Cora

  keep one

  and she whispers

  we’ll share

  the salty-sweet sauce

  on hot grilled meat

  is better than perfect

  and I eat mine too fast

  then stand there

  nearly drooling

  waiting for Cora to finish

  her half of the extra skewer

  as a customer approaches

  the butcher starts his greeting

  but just then a siren

  splits

  the air

  Cora drops the skewers

  and climbs me like a tree

  the customer grabs my arm

  and holds on tight

  the butcher sheds his apron

  and races up the street

  by the third siren

  I can set Cora down

  the customer lets go

  and the butcher’s wife collects

  the apron and dropped skewers

  fire! she says above the siren

  and in this wind! she adds

  eyeing dust and leaves

  plastic bits and paper

  flying through the air

  come on! I say to Cora

  even though the butcher’s wife is

  dipping new skewers for Cora

  let’s go! I say

  even though seconds ago

  I wanted more

  as we pedal off

  a car flies past

  two workers

  race from a side alley

  a man in a suit

  leaps onto a bicycle

  from all sides

  men head to the fire station

  and rush to a fire truck

  where the butcher

  now sits in full

  firefighting gear

  the siren wails

  the truck leaves

  bells clang

  more sirens sound

  more bells clang

  and shopkeepers

  customers, students

  even tourists just off the streetcar

  stand still as snapshots

  and in this wind …

  Chapter 6

  SANDAL

  on our bicycles

  we follow the noise

  and all at once

  we smell

  then see

  black smoke

  rising

  where the fire trucks turn

  where the lane meets the river

  we stop because upriver a rooftop burns

  flames leaping

  clawing, snapping

  at neighboring homes

  fire and rescue trucks

  ambulances, police cars

  cram every bit of road

  or driveway or bridge

  and jets of water

  stream from hoses

  then

  sugei nā—cool!

  says a voice I know too well

  Shunta Mori

  who rules han six

  straddling his bike, his pride

  all hand-painted with

  lightning bolts and stripes

  Yuki’s uncle’s house is right

  behind the fish shop Shunta says

  Yuki

  who knocks me on the head

  when I give the wrong answer

  in class

  does she live there? I say

  no, idiot, I said it’s her uncle’s house

  I don’t bother to argue

  I don’t bother to say

  that Yōhei lives with his parents

  and grandparents

  that Shō’s aunt lives with his family

  because what I have learned

  in one week with han six is that

  Shunta is always right

  let’s go closer Shunta says

  no, it’s too dangerous I say

  then immediately regret it

  because as usual my words

  don’t come out quite right

  what I wanted to say was

  we’d be in the way

  wind could spread this fire fast

  we hav
e a good view where we are now

  but in Japanese

  my words always sound

  too slow

  too formal

  too adult

  or too young

  for once Shunta

  gives me a break and

  just watches the flames

  darting in all directions

  then he shouts

  the next one’s burning, too!

  and it is

  ash and embers fill the air

  people pass buckets

  from the river to houses

  others point hoses

  to douse sheds and fences

  rooftops and trees

  the wind whips—

  spray and smoke

  sting our eyes

  and I’m thinking

  what to say to Shunta

  so we can just leave

  but then a voice says

  bōya! oi, bōya!—

  boy! hey, boy!

  and an old man shuffles over

  one hand on a cane

  the other clutching

  something under his arm

  Shunta glares at him

  turns back to the fire

  the man comes closer

  with his eyes on mine

  he speaks but

  sirens

  people’s cries

  Cora’s whines

  blasts from hoses

  the roar of the wind

  take the man’s words and

  send

  them

  sailing

  the man shuffles closer

  mumbles something

  and nudges my arm

  with a plastic … garden sandal?

  Shunta jerks his head

  let’s go! come on!

  as if I’m supposed to

  follow, pronto

  I don’t, and when the man

  sandal-taps my arm again

  Shunta leans over

  bats it down, and says

  get away with that filthy thing!

  the man catches it

  stumbles backward

  tucks it under his arm

  and moves away

  then we all turn to watch the fire

  hear the house groan

  and see one side collapse

  in huge billows of smoke

  but Cora slides closer to me

  signaling with her eyes

  toward the mumbling man

  so I shift toward him

  he totters toward me, and I hear

  police … fire …

  and this time I accept the sandal

  baka—jerk! Shunta says

  mounts his bike, spits

  and rides off a ways

  I ignore him

  bend toward the man and say

  something to do with the fire?

  a guy … running the old man says

  and now I catch scraps of sentences—

  motorbike … house … front … this dropped

  where? Cora says

  yellow house …

  he slurs and waves toward

  a distant two-story house

  Shunta returns

  yanks my arm

  let’s go! he says now!

  so I hook the sandal

  over my handlebar

  nod at the man

  and to Cora

  say come on!

  then follow Shunta

  wait, J!

  I hear

  but I don’t turn

  because with Shunta

  I have to pretend

  I just don’t care

  Shunta leads us downriver

  across a bridge and up the other bank

  to a small park of tilted pine trees

  from where across the water we see

  smoking beams and rubble

  charred dressers

  and scraps of drenched clothing

  like street litter after rain

  a few flames flicker and leap

  onto an adjacent roof

  then the fire is doused leaving

  only rising steam and smoke

  we hear crying

  see a cluster of people

  gathered around a woman weeping

  and a man covering his face

  Yuki’s mother and her uncle Shunta says

  then swears and spits

  her uncle’s whole house—just gone

  Cora touches the sandal

  gives me a sly look

  and I nod, barely

  so Shunta can’t see

  and say we have to go

  Shunta sneers

  you taking that sandal?

  that man’s a fool!

  and lets go a torrent of words

  that makes Cora’s eyes bulge

  I duck when Shunta tries

  a parting punch

  that only barely

  grazes my arm because

  I move but hold

  my center

  Chapter 7

  POLICE BOX

  we cross the river downstream

  and pass the house we think

  might be the old man’s

  where a woman now stands

  in front, hands on hips

  staring toward the fire

  we ride the riverside path

  to the road that leads to the beach

  and the big intersection

  near where the police “box”

  sits squeezed between

  the post office and a flower shop

  inside

  the office has

  a small counter

  a few folding chairs

  posters of those same-old

  creepy faces of wanted people

  and an officer who appears from

  a tiny back office

  the last name on his name tag

  I can read 中里—Nakazato

  I set the sandal on the counter

  mistake!

  what’s this? the officer scoffs

  then brushes off the counter

  lifts the sandal with one finger

  and places a tissue beneath

  it’s a sandal Cora says

  I give her a silencing look

  something to do with the fire I add

  but Nakazato doesn’t flinch

  an old man gave it to us I explain

  he saw a man running from the fire area

  and that man rode a motorbike

  in front of the old man’s house …

  and motorbike man dropped this sandal

  we think

  my Japanese sounds dumb so I add

  somewhere there is a man

  on a motorbike with

  one sandal

  Nakazato sighs

  takes up a pen

  so, the old man’s name?

  Cora and I look at each other

  we don’t know I say

  we can go back to check Cora offers

  Nakazato taps his pen

  or if you have a map I say

  I might be able to show you

  and he stands and points

  to a huge map tacked to the wall

  I run my finger over

  neighborhoods, block numbers

  tiny kanji character names

  for each household or business

  the main road, the river, bridges

  which I count up from the fire station

  to the fish shop and the house on fire

  then I follow houses downriver

  and three houses below another bridge

  where the lane narrows to a path …

  this house I say, and it’s marked

  竹村

  Takemura

  a simple name I can read

  an old man lives there Cora says

  his words are hard to understand

  and he uses a … a stick—

  she gestures and limps to show a cane

  Nakazat
o jots down notes

  anything else? he asks

  I wish we had something else

  but we don’t

  he writes down

  our names

  our address

  home phone number

  cell phone numbers

  and gives us

  the police box number

  please I say

  please find that one-sandal man

  and we leave

  outside the police box

  the five o’clock chimes ring

  the groceries! I say

  Mom’s list and her money

  still sit in my shirt pocket

  and by now we’re supposed to be home

  chopping vegetables and starting rice

  I try to swear gangster style

  like Shunta in Japanese

  but Cora just laughs

  and for that

  I take off again

  before she’s ready

  hah!

  Chapter 8

  BALANCE AND PERSPECTIVE

  the next day the fire

  is the talk of the school

  han six is distracted

  and Yuki is silent

  never once

  whacking me on the head

  without han six moving my desk

  or making marks on my papers

  I can even hand in work early

  and place it on the pile of papers

  weighted by a bronze dragon

  that’s been in this classroom

  twenty years, so they say

  the subject of the fire

  comes up again and again

  so finally Ōshima-sensei says

  to write a reflective essay

  or make a newspaper page

  or sketch pictures of the fire

  or do anything else to reflect

  so I draw

  the house and flames far upriver

  and in the foreground, huge

  a single plastic

  garden sandal

  Shunta snorts when he sees it

  makes loud fun of it

  and I expect the usual

  bruising punch to my arm

  I try to protect myself

  find and hold my center

  but the blow comes

  from behind—Gō

  my head rings

  I want to punch back

  but Shō and Yōhei always say

  don’t!

  it will get worse if you do

  just hold on until next seat change

  but seat change

  is seven weeks away

  seat change is not

  until the end of November

  my head throbs

  but I pretend to laugh along

  with Shunta and his gang

  all crowded over my desk

  poking fun at my drawing

  my opponents

  my attackers

  too close

  I want it to be five o’clock

  I want to be at the dojo

  chanting

  stretching my neck