The turtle house, p.29
The Turtle House, page 29
Chapter 30
Kadoma, Osaka Prefecture
June 27, 1998
It was a dark, bottomless feeling, loving a country so changed that nearly nothing remained the same.
After landing in Osaka, Mineko had linked arms with Fumiko as if they were young girls again and explored Osaka for a few days before taking the short ride to Kadoma. It was as if one of her favorite soap operas was being rewound, but instead of the characters moving backward through familiar settings, everything was altered. Concrete everywhere. Neon everywhere. Newness everywhere. Osaka was incredibly different. Kadoma unrecognizable.
And the characters—she and Fumiko—they pointed out their age spots and wrinkles; Fumiko lifted her shirt to show her sagging belly. This made them both laugh, but Mineko felt as old as she ever had before.
In Kadoma, nothing was left. True, the bombs had destroyed most of the village, but it was being rebuilt in the same manner at her last visit, taking Mae to see her father for the first and only time. Yellow wood had simply replaced gray. New screens had replaced older ones. Even baby plants had been lovingly replanted, same roses, same ferns.
But now, now, now—Mineko couldn’t stop repeating those words—streets cut through where houses used to stand, and the shopping district had been razed and then rebuilt bigger. Stucco covered the outsides of buildings. Red bricks. Strange cement walls. Awnings in bright crayon colors. Telephone lines and streetcar lines and poles with even more lines that connected to buildings here and there without any semblance of organization. More signs than she could count, more signs than were necessary. More corner stores. How many damn snacks in a plastic bag do these people need? And they were her people, she stopped to think, dumbfounded. Her people, who had changed over time.
And everything was paved. Big squares and rectangles of pavement, connecting to other squares and rectangles of pavement. Gray, darker gray, black.
“It’s not so bad, Mineko-chan! It’s different, yes, but isn’t it nice to be back?” Fumiko clasped her hands under her chin. They were sharing a room in the hotel, and Mineko was staring out the window—eleven stories up!—overlooking a sea of flat roofs.
The hotel’s breakfast, at least, was decent, and because it was a hotel that locals favored—Kadoma was clearly not a tourist must-see—eggs and bacon were not featured. Although she did have a soft spot for well-crisped bacon, Mineko was happy to see a spread of miso soup, tsukemono, and the fermented soybeans that, even though she could buy them in the fancy Japanese food store in Dallas, were made like Fumiko’s own mother had done, so many years ago.
Today was the day. The day to visit the turtle house. They had procured maps of the area from the library and charted their journey. Now that Kadoma was so much bigger and they were staying farther from where she would have started her walk as a young woman, they would take a bus. Bus number 29. Which means there’s a reason for twenty-eight other buses! Then, Mineko hoped, things would begin to look more familiar.
Mineko dressed for a hike. Sensible shoes, a hat, a backpack. Fumiko, now so much of a city dweller, giggled at her friend’s attire. She was wearing palazzo pants and a light sweater and Dr. Scholl’s sandals. They sat close together on the bus in the seats reserved for the elderly. To everyone getting on and off, boys with tight black T-shirts and earrings, girls with bright lipstick and miniskirts, they were little old ladies.
“But Mineko-chan, do you think that the payment went through? Do you need to contact the Satos? Did Akio own the house or did—”
“I told you, I don’t know!” Mineko was edgy about this topic. Fumiko had brought it up a few times since Mineko had landed at Kansai. She had struggled over reaching out to Mrs. Sato—worried about seeming opportunistic, caring for the house only for the value of the land, when it was worth so much more. So instead she had done nothing.
The bus bumped over intersections. Turned sharply down streets, then up hills. Fumiko pointed out to Mineko what had been there, and together they sketched the past on top of the present. Finally, they turned onto the road that would have led out of town and on to the next village, but no longer was it unpaved and skinny, it was six lanes wide and stores, businesses, and apartments lined either side.
To be looking for the bamboo stand was pointless.
“Here we are!” Fumiko said brightly.
“This? No, surely it is too soon!”
“No, this is it, I’m certain of it. The map says.”
They took the big steps off the bus and were on a street corner. It was more suburban than downtown Kadoma, a little quieter, and Mineko could make out birdsong. There were, indeed, more trees, but not the grassy expanse she had hoped for. And instead of tall, waving bamboo, which she would have to walk through sideways, there was a church. White brick, a combination of rectangular prisms stacked on top of each other, a red cross over the door.
“Very modern,” Fumiko said.
“It’s ugly,” Mineko replied.
“Follow me,” Fumiko said, and Mineko did. They held hands like little girls. They went to the right of the church, following the sidewalk.
What they passed: a small dental office, a tiny park space for dogs, and then they came to another street, perpendicular to them.
On the corner. One monchu. It was the same shape, but the rough ridges had developed a dark patina. Mineko licked her finger and tried to rub it off. What could it be?
“Dirty air,” Fumiko said. Her voice was quiet, as if she were conversing with a spooked deer.
Air pollution, yes, Mineko thought. That makes sense. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again, thinking that by doing so, the other monchu, the one that stood like a sister and led the way to the house, would reappear. But no. Next to it, a telephone booth. From there, where the path would have been to the main steps, was a monstrosity.
She couldn’t breathe.
Mineko stood in front of a pharmacy, a Sundrug, the neon bright even in daylight. She looked behind her at the lone monchu, the cement reaching its base, a few weeds sprouting between the rock and the sidewalk where it had appeared to have been planted after the fact. Yes, just fifty paces beyond would have been the steps.
Mineko dropped Fumiko’s hand and walked to the edge of the pharmacy, where there was an alley. Surely beyond this there was the pond? The river? Where was the river?
The gazebo, the water lilies, the ancient turtles’ grandturtles!
“Oh, my friend. I knew this, in my heart. Your excitement made me hope, but I knew.”
Mineko opened a high gate in a wooden fence, but it led only to another alley, which she then went down. Just beyond, she was sure it would still be there. At least the turtles. The house was gone, but maybe where she swam. Mineko ran, leaving Fumiko clopping behind her in her sandals. She passed a dumpster and an air-conditioning unit and a large electric box and then another gate, which she pried open.
There was a drainage ditch. Yellow lines painted along the edges with the words DO NOT PASS THROUGH. The ditch was flowing slowly, the water cloudy.
Fumiko, shaken and breathing hard from trying to keep up, handed her friend the map. Mineko unfolded it, dropping her sunglasses. She pushed her sun hat back on her head, as if a ray of direct sunlight would prove that all of this was wrong and the turtle house still existed, just two stops away. How does Fumiko know directions anyway? Mineko thought. Then Tammy’s funny phrase that she always used: that girl couldn’t find her way out of a paper bag with a pair of scissors.
But on the map was a squiggly blue line that flowed back toward downtown. Kadoma River, it said in tiny print. Darkness edged in on Mineko’s vision; she felt like a horse with blinders, able to see only the cement in front of her, but nothing beyond.
“Let’s go back,” Fumiko urged. “Let’s rest before lunch.”
But Mineko walked closer to the water, her toes over the yellow lines.
“You’ll fall!”
Mineko took a centimeter step closer. She raised her arms to the sky.
“Akio!” Mineko’s voice was not the yell like she wanted, but a croaking noise. “Oh, Akio. Look what they’ve done.”
Fumiko put her hand gently on Mineko’s wrist and tugged her away from the ditch. Mineko felt as if everything in her was loose, out of joint. Her knees knocked as she turned.
For the next few days, Mineko faked enjoyment to the best of her limited ability. Anger boiled inside her stomach, every food that settled into her gut churned and growled. When Fumiko offered to go to the pharmacy for antacids, Mineko thought of the pharmacy where the turtle house stood and firmly said no, not necessary.
Her family home, the one she had helped to rebuild after the bombing, was gone, another house in its place. They visited her family haka at the temple, where she dutifully washed the tombstone, placed her father’s favorite flowers, lit incense, and prayed. They visited shrines, parks, a few old ladies whom Mineko barely recalled from school. Then they took the train to Kobe, and briefly, Mineko was comforted to see a town that had been spared. The old part was a historic district, and strict rules existed to keep it such. But just the fact that what she desired was considered historic irritated Mineko greatly. In the end, she bought most of her souvenirs here, and when Fumiko mentioned that she still had two months in the country and didn’t need to buy everything at once, Mineko gaped.
“Two months?” And it was then that she knew she wouldn’t last. Not here. Not this visit.
They made their way to Tokyo, where Mineko immediately took the train alone to Tachikawa, fully in Japanese hands since 1977. It was now home to a portion of the Japanese Coast Guard, along with other government groups. She stepped off the bus at the main gate and walked up to the guard shack to ask if American Village Phase I still existed. The young Japanese soldier had to ask his superior what she was talking about, and the older man shook his head no, saying that it had been torn down many years ago. But, he said, some of the other buildings remained, including the airfield, but she’d have to have a special pass to visit it. Maybe the officer clubs? she wondered. The P/X? No, he said, although he pointed her in the direction of a brand-new 7-Eleven if she happened to be thirsty. Mineko thanked him and walked away.
She made her way around the perimeter, noticing that the base was slowly being dissolved into green space. She paced up and back, trying to make sense of this new place, using the landing strip as her compass. But each time she thought she was perhaps in the right location, doubt crept in. Why am I even trying to find a phantom of a base house! She had lived there, hadn’t she? Even if they hadn’t been knocked down for new construction, the homes would have fallen apart by now anyway.
Finally a teenage girl pointed her toward a park where she had heard that the United States once had housing, and Mineko entered it, looking at the map that was posted at the front. SHŌWA PARK the map stated proudly, named after Hirohito, the Emperor Shōwa. A kid flew by on a skateboard. Mineko wondered if he had any idea that the park he skated through was named after the emperor who had changed the country forever, a man to whom boys no older than he had pledged allegiance before going to war.
On the bus and train back to Fumi’s, Mineko watched the city slip by her window. She comforted herself with the knowledge that now, at least, she would see the minogame again, and that, she was hopeful, had not changed. Fumiko had promised her she had kept it wrapped and out of the sun. When it came time to move, her friend had transported the roof statue personally, never placing it in a box that could have been dropped or lost.
“Look who I have here!” Fumiko said cheerfully. The table was decorated with food and flowers, tiny candles and photos of the old days. Mineko realized that Fumi had known that Tachikawa would be a disappointment and had planned this to cheer her upon entry into the apartment.
In the center of the table was a piece of red satin covering something, and Mineko knew what was beneath it. With a little smile, Fumiko removed the cloth and there she was, the minogame, having not aged a year.
“I guess this is the good thing about stone. It’s already old,” Mineko said, letting herself breathe again. She didn’t know that she had been holding her breath since arriving in Osaka. While she believed her friend would take care of the turtle, she still somehow felt that perhaps something had happened to it. When it was there, laughing among the gyoza and blossoms, Mineko thanked every god she could think of for allowing Fumiko to take such good care of her. She put the heavy thing in her lap, letting it dig into her thighs, and held it like it was a baby. Fumiko came over and placed her cheek into Mineko’s hair, her hands on her shoulders.
“At least you still have this,” she said.
“Yes, at least,” Mineko said. But there was no doubt in her mind that she had seen enough for one trip.
Mineko stayed with Fumiko for a few more days, out of obligation. She met Fumi’s friends, polite women who inquired if Texas was anything like the soap opera Dallas. Mineko ate the foods Fumiko prepared, using the recipes passed down from her own mother, long since departed. She listened to Fumiko’s dear husband talk about the factory he still worked at, forty years on the job. And Mineko slept fitfully on the nicest futon that Fumiko had lovingly set up—probably spending too much of her meager savings to do so, Mineko thought, guiltily. But even these feelings couldn’t stop her from calling American Airlines one morning and changing her flight to the next day. The one blessing of it all was she would at least be returning after the annual Fourth of July celebration, moved to Mae’s home this year. There was only so much that one could take.
On the twelfth day of her big retirement trip, Mineko said goodbye to Fumiko, this time at massive Narita airport, and hauled the minogame turtle and her carry-on down the long corridor toward the plane, bound for the United States.
Fumiko cried a little, as did Mineko.
A flight attendant directed her to her seat. Mineko managed to fit her statue below the seat in front of her.
Another young flight attendant, blond and smiling, helped her push her duffel back into the overhead bin.
“May I get you anything, ma’am, before takeoff?”
“Some green tea, please?”
“We only serve black on the way back to the United States, I’m so sorry. Would that be okay?”
Mineko nodded.
The flight attendant returned, dodging new passengers finding their way back to the rear of the plane. Mineko was so thankful that Mae had chipped in and helped her purchase a business-class seat.
The flight attendant carefully handed her a Styrofoam cup. “Be careful, it’s quite hot. And I found these.”
A tiny bag of rice crackers. Mineko thanked her.
“Happy to be going home?”
And Mineko wondered if that’s what she was indeed doing. Going home. She again nodded yes and, pleased that she had done her job, the flight attendant smiled, pointed to the call button, and told her to push it if she needed anything at all.
Mineko clicked her seat belt and closed the little window blind. This time she didn’t want to watch her home country slipping away.
Chapter 31
Curtain, Texas
April 6, 1999
We listen to the tapes in my parents’ living room until the sky begins to lighten. Aunt Mae, puffy-eyed, blows her nose savagely into a tissue. My father paces from the upright piano to the living room couch and back again.
My mom brings in mugs of hot coffee and half-and-half. She sits on the couch next to Mae and hands her another tissue. “I get it—how do you even start to tell your children any of this?”
“We haven’t been kids in a long time, Tam,” my dad says. “And I wonder why I didn’t wonder more about her.”
“You two had a weird childhood.” My mother isn’t going to let them take any blame.
And maybe they shouldn’t. Maybe it is what my grandmother always says, shikata ga ni. I finally looked it up, because I couldn’t quite figure out the exact translation. Like so many other Japanese words and phrases, it means different things at different times. Sometimes it means something akin to “what can be done” and other times, and this is where Japanese is a trickster, it means, “it must be done.”
“It was hard,” Aunt Mae concedes. “Looking different.”
“Being different.”
“And Dad.”
“And Dad.” My father sighs, long and hard. “She put up with him all those years.” He cracks his knuckles. My mom hates that noise and winces.
Dad turns to me, wraps an arm around my shoulders, and pulls me to his chest, the other arm closing around me, too. He smells like soap and coffee and, even though he hasn’t been out in his workshop, wood shavings.
“You” is all he says, but I know what he means.
“I love you, Daddy.”
Like Grandminnie, Dad’s stingy with his hugs. But it was all I wanted the night I decided to leave Austin. I had quit my job that afternoon and had thrown all my clothes and belongings in my car, barely getting the trunk to close, knowing I’d be using side mirrors all the way home because all I would be able to see in the rearview was a wad of colors. I went for one last paddle into the mouth of Lady Bird Lake and turned around reluctantly. The wind was fierce and cold; it was an awful day to be on the water and I was alone. It took all I had to fight the waves back to my place, and my arms were shaking by the time I hung up my paddle.
This is what I had wanted when I drove home that day, a complete hug.
My mom hugs Dad hugging me. Mae stands and wraps herself around us, too. We’ll find her, she says. We’re like a tight bud, their bodies around me like petals. I was in the right place at the right time, I want to say. Or maybe she was. Or maybe we both were. Or maybe . . .
