The Hole

by Hiroko Oyamada

  Sera continued, indifferent to my silence. “What can you do for fun, right? I’d tell you to come over and talk to me whenever you want, but I’m a little older than you, and I have a child to look after. If you had a child, you’d have your hands full, believe me . . . But why not have a kid? Can you?” I sighed. I wanted to answer, but I realized my voice wasn’t coming, so I tilted my head to the side and tried to smile. Children. Having a child would change things, but it wasn’t exactly the change I was looking for. Besides, was this really the right environment for raising a kid? The buzz of cicadas, the splash of Grandpa’s hose, Tomiko’s weird doggy slippers, and my husband and his phone. Just imagining myself breastfeeding a baby in the middle of all that was enough to depress me. I didn’t exactly hate the idea of having a child. Maybe it could make me happy. Maybe it was the best thing to do if I wasn’t going to go back to work. Sera looked me in the eye, smiled, and said, “I understand. I was older when I had my son. I had to stay at the hospital. We were there for a while, too. In the end, my baby was fine, but they had him in an incubator for a long time . . . I couldn’t do anything but watch. It was so hard. It wasn’t easy for my husband or his mother, either. I can’t even imagine what my son was going through. He’s five now. I’m sure you can hear him sometimes. He’s not as mature as the other kids his age, not that there’s anything wrong with that. I suppose that’s half nurture, but it’s also half nature. Anyway, you’re still so young — with so much to look forward to. I’m sure Matsuura-san has told you some stories. I know Taka-chan wasn’t easy for her . . .” “Taka-chan?” I asked back. Sera clicked her tongue, then contorted her face in apology. “No, wait, hold on. Did I say Taka? I got mixed up. Sometimes I have these thoughts in my brain, but the words that come out are completely different. You’re too young to know what I mean, but sometimes I just space out . . .” “No, no. I understand.” I nodded. I was pretty sure I was more spaced out than she was. If I were fully awake, I wouldn’t know how I’d get through each day. Sera touched her lips with her fingers. Unlike the other day, they were glistening red. “Mune-chan, Mune-chan. I remember when he was only a baby. To think of him, all grown up, going off to work, then coming home with a bride of his own . . . Matsuura-san must be overjoyed. It’s a lot sometimes, I know, but I’m sure you’ll do fine. What am I saying? Just listen to me go. That’s not why I came by. I wanted to give you these. No one in my family likes them, but what about you?”

  She reached inside her cotton bag and pulled out a smaller plastic bag — inside were a few green things shaped like spindles. “What are they?” “Myoga. You’ve never had myoga?” She was looking at me like I was an alien. “No — I have.” I’d just never bought any. Besides, they didn’t look anything like the little reddish things I was used to seeing piled up at the supermarket — these were large and bright green. Toward the end, they exploded into large, unwieldy fingers. “Um, this is what goes on hiyayakko, right?” “Yeah, exactly. You chop it up. It goes well with tofu and noodles. You can pickle it in sweet vinegar, too. We’re not even trying to grow myoga anymore, but they still pop up in our garden every year. Tons of them. I used to eat myoga all the time, but no one else in my family likes it, so it didn’t make any sense to keep growing it . . . But it’s great with vinegared miso dressing. Throw a little sugar in, too, to sweeten things up,” Sera said, dangling the bag between us. I thanked her and took it. I could feel its coolness through the plastic. Clutching one of the plants, I found it surprisingly hard. It was covered in fine hair and didn’t feel like any leaf or stem or fruit I knew. “What part of the plant is this?” Sera tilted her head in response. I could see more plastic bags full of greens. She must’ve been going around the neighborhood, handing out myoga. I guess she really did have tons of the stuff. “This is the whole thing. They shoot out of the ground, just like this. If you let them grow, white flowers come out of the tips. It’s pretty. They look a little like orchids. You can eat the flowers, too.” Looking inside the bag, I could smell rain mixed with earth.

  Once Sera left, I put the bag of myoga in the fridge, then went to the living room window. I could see Grandpa outside, crouching down. There was something black at his feet. It looked like he was petting a cat. Whatever he was doing, it had to be better than running the hose in the middle of the pouring rain.

  “What’s in this?” “Myoga.” “Myoga?” my husband asked, spitting out the vinegared miso he’d had in his mouth. Looking around online, I found that myoga buds are also called “spikes.” I took Sera’s advice and used them in a dressing. When I tried it, I thought it was pretty good. It had a unique texture to it, and I’d never smelled anything quite like it — it would probably go well with sake. “Myoga?” my husband said again after he’d washed his mouth out with mugicha. “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want.” “Sorry, I don’t think I can handle it. What made you buy myoga? Was it on sale or something?” “No, Sera-san came over and gave me a bag.” “Sera-san?” My husband sounded like he had no idea who I was talking about. I ate the myoga I’d dished out for him. Tasted fine to me. It was nice and light. I could even smell the rain mixed with the vinegar and miso. “The woman on the other side of my parents’ house?” “Yeah.” “Huh. I didn’t realize you knew her.” “Well, I’d hardly say I know her.” My husband’s free hand glided over the surface of his phone while he snacked on other things. I didn’t know who he was writing to, but I’m sure he was typing something like “I can’t believe my wife just tried to make me eat the world’s shittiest myoga.” I sighed. “What?” He looked up at me. “Nothing,” I said, shaking my head.

  I woke up to the loud cries of the cicadas. When we went to sleep the night before, it was still raining. It was so muggy that we shut the windows and left the AC running when we went to bed. Why were the cicadas so loud? I looked at the clock. My alarm wasn’t set to go off for a long time. My husband was sleeping next to me, turned the other way. His shirt had slid halfway up his back, revealing a few white spots that looked like pimples. I crawled out of bed and looked out the window. It was hard to believe it had been raining the night before. The weather was beautiful now. Grandpa was out in the garden, watering the plants. What I thought had been cicadas was the sound of the hose. I felt as if my knees were about to give. Grandpa wore the same outfit as always: a straw hat, gray long-sleeve shirt, and pants. I suppose the best way to water the garden is to get started before the sun rises, but how long was he going to be out there? It wasn’t exactly the biggest yard. Where was all the water going?

  After I saw my husband off to work, I went next door. It had been several hours since I’d looked out the window and seen Grandpa running the hose, but — of course — he was still there. Tomiko was already gone. From the gate, I called out in a fairly loud voice, “Grandpa! How long are you going to be gardening?” He gave no response, so I took a few steps in his direction. Once he saw me, he turned toward me with a hand in the air, baring his teeth in a smile. Now that he was looking right at me, I tried again. “How’s the garden?” As I spoke, his smile shrank for a moment, then grew back. Now he was really showing his teeth. It wasn’t even eight yet, but it was already scorching out. I moved closer to the house, into the shade, and watched Grandpa as he got back to the task at hand. His lips formed a tight circle, as if he were whistling, but he wasn’t making a sound. I looked at the plants around the garden. There were morning glories in red and dark blue, the flowers clinging to their own leaves. There were giant red cannas and sunflowers the color of molasses. Among the wild weeds and yellowing pots, I could see dark purple clumps of wood sorrels and a few light red plants I couldn’t name, but it was clearly some sort of garden species. Everything seemed to strike a strange balance — maybe because it was summer? The scene hummed with a green vitality that flowed through the windless garden. A grasshopper leapt onto a leaf, then flew away, the stalk trembling in its wake.

  In the bushes beyond the sun, a black shadow blinked. A pair of
bright yellow circles closed, then opened again. A large, round frog. Close to it was a single dahlia, swarming with yellow aphids moving sluggishly up and down the long stem. The aphids had eyes. They were only black dots, no bigger than the tip of a needle, but I could see them with terrible clarity. They looked so large that I thought something had to be wrong with my own eyes. The flowers were past their peak. Their petals were curling up, changing color. It looked like the frog was about to feed on the aphids. I waited for it to unleash its pink tongue and snap up the unsuspecting insects. The dahlia collapsed from the root. A blast of water had knocked it over. Grandpa — whistling soundlessly — was flooding the garden around him, leaving the dahlia on its side before moving on to the bush where the frog had been. A single cicada shook its abdomen clumsily as it began to cross the garden, stopping to release a stream of clear fluid, then began to buzz. Chiii, chit, chit. Grandpa looked at me as if he had just remembered I was there, then returned to his usual pose. “Grandpa . . . the water . . .” He nodded and held his hand up at what was probably a right angle to his body, but his whole body was tilted to one side. Just when I thought he couldn’t grin any wider, he did. He couldn’t hear a word I said. Beneath his giant hat, his teeth were shining. His eyes and nose were hidden in shadow. Only his mouth — a rigid smile — was clear to me. It didn’t even look like a smile to me anymore, but I had to believe that it was. As I looked at the garden, now reduced to mud, I saw a black animal coming toward the gate. Its face was strangely long and pointy. Its yellow eyes were trained on me. A few stray drops from Grandpa’s hose splashed across its snout. The animal jumped a little, then quickened its steps. I looked at Grandpa. He must have noticed the animal, but carried on just the same. He continued to spray water all around, his lips puckered in a tight circle, producing more spit than sound. The animal came closer, then shook its body. No water flew off of it. It wasn’t very wet. It couldn’t be the same animal as before. Its fur looked a little softer, its tail a little shorter. The animal swaggered across the garden, behind Tomiko’s house, then disappeared around the corner. Grandpa was looking elsewhere, his lips pursed as he turned the water up. The green hose shook behind him and the water shot through the garden. I went after the animal.

  Between Tomiko’s house and the Seras’ was a concrete-block wall — like the one between Tomiko’s house and ours, but maybe a foot or two taller. There was a break in the blocks just large enough for a person to squeeze through. It was dark, hidden in shadow. In the darkness, I could make out hind legs and a short tail, only for a moment, before the animal vanished. I went after it. Thick layers of spiderwebs hung between the concrete wall and the house. They got all over my face and in my mouth. I tried to peel the webs from my face. On the back wall of the house were dried clumps of earth drooping down. They could have been smears of mud left behind by a child — or maybe some sort of insect nest. A few of the concrete blocks had fan-shaped holes in them. Through the openings, I could see the yard next door — the Seras’ yard. The grass was as green as could be, and covered with bright red and yellow objects. Maybe they were her son’s toys? I imagined Sera in her white skirt, watering the lawn. Nothing like Grandpa in his muddy boots. What I envisioned was a happier scene — a child playing gleefully at her feet. At the edge of Tomiko’s house, a small space appeared. There was no animal. Instead I saw a middle-aged man. The cries of the cicadas stopped.

  The man was crouching down, his arm shoved through one of the open blocks. I froze. He looked right at me. He was thin, with black hair, wearing a white open-collar shirt. I’d seen him before, at the 7-Eleven. It was the man the children had called Sensei. “Hello there!” the man shouted. I gulped. Behind the man, I saw a small building — some sort of prefabricated shack. “And who might you be?” he asked loudly, a smile on his face.

  If this man were an intruder and I had to call for help, the Seras’ house was probably closer than Grandpa. Besides, Grandpa wouldn’t even hear me. As I wondered whether Sera was home, I tried my best to answer him: “I live, in the house, next, next to this one . . .” “Right, right. The bride. When you say ‘next to,’ you mean on the opposite side, right? You moved in just a little while ago . . .” He had a friendly way of talking. He didn’t seem at all dangerous or threatening, but I couldn’t be sure. “I’m the older son. Mune’s older brother. A lot older, really.” “Huh?” My mouth was hanging open. The man continued. “I suppose that makes me your . . . what? What’s that called again? It’s on the tip of my tongue, I swear. I’m your husband’s brother, and that makes me your, uh, your brother, brother-in . . . brother-in-what . . .” “Law?” “Right! Your brother-in-law.”

  “My brother-in-law?” I asked. As I did, I shrank back, not so much that he would have noticed. My husband’s brother? “Right, right. Your brother-in-law. That’s who I am. Nice to meet you.” All of a sudden, I could smell something like freshly mown grass — as though something inside me had cleared. The man looked up at me, showing his teeth in a smile. But I thought my husband was an only child. No one had ever said otherwise. “From the look on your face, I’m guessing no one told you about me. I suppose that’s understandable. It’s a bit of a tragic situation, really. You see this shack — this shed?” the man asked, pointing to the cream-colored structure behind him. It reminded me of the sort of temporary housing that you see in disaster zones. It was small, but had two stories. Same as Tomiko’s house, the walls were covered in clumps of dry earth — higher up, a few of them had holes in them. The building had a brown sliding door with a small keyhole to one side. “This is where I’ve lived for the last twenty years.” “Twenty years?” I asked. “I know, it’s a long time, right? Twenty years ago, you couldn’t have been more than a guppy. Anyway, I was big by then. I stopped going to school, dragged my bed into the shed, and started living on my own. My parents probably thought I was going through some kind of phase, but I was hell-bent on getting out, even when I was just a boy. But I never had the chance. You gotta have a place, right? Right around that time, we got the shed back here. A beautiful two-story shed. We’d been farming and needed more space to store some gear. Then I hijacked the shed! Under the cover of night, of course. It was a real coup, let me tell you. And that’s the way it’s been for twenty years. Haven’t put in an honest day’s work since. I’m a real good-for-nothing!” the man shouted in excitement. When he finally stopped to take a breath, he made a serious face, then whispered, “I guess that makes me what they call a hikikomori — a shut-in.”

  His hair was dark, so he didn’t look much older than my husband — not that I had any clue how old he was. His thin lips were bright red. Under his open-collar shirt, I could see a tank top. They both looked pretty clean. His slacks were dark navy, or maybe black. They looked like the sort of pants middle schoolers wear with their summer uniforms. Maybe they were. The more I thought about it, his outfit really was strange. His shoes were black leather, shining like they’d just been polished. He still had his arm shoved into the wall. There didn’t seem to be anything on the other side. Then it hit me how cool the air was — nothing like the heat out front. In the shade of the house, the air was cold. Moss grew toward the bottom of the wall and on the ground below. Where there was no moss, it was black. It didn’t look muddy, but it was probably damp. The narrow walkway was dry. It looked like it forked off at some point. The ground wasn’t wet like the garden out front. Here there was balance — moist air seemed to rise up from the earth itself, cool and damp. The air had that same grassy smell, almost like fresh tatami, and maybe a little incense. Growing on the ground were clusters of dark violet with white flowers on top. “That’s bishop’s weed. Granny used to make tea with it. Mom can’t stand the smell . . . Personally, I love it, because I was always Granny’s boy. Still, Mom never drank Granny’s tea. She didn’t want me touching it either. But now look. It’s everywhere. Hey, what if you took some home and made tea? I bet it’d be really good if you dried it out . . .” “Um . . .” Images
flashed in my mind, one after another. Grandma’s photograph from the altar room. Then Tomiko, Muneaki, and — for whatever reason — the Sera woman. Last of all, I saw Grandpa, smiling as always. My husband’s brother . . . My brother-in-law? How did everyone know so much about me when I knew nothing about them?