A Thousand Stitches (4 page)

They found their reward for the climb when the trail turned and again emerged from the woods. They stood high on a cliff with the Pacific spread out before them and a series of falls cascading below them, the last ending on the beach far below that was dotted with tide pools. Once they caught their breath, they stood in silence and looked and looked.

“Lynn, you were right,” was all Gen could manage.

“Yes, it is special, isn't it?” she replied, and stepped forward to stand beside him. She shook off the weight of the beauty before them, and laughed as she caught his eye. “And now the fun begins. We have to get ourselves down to the beach.”

They began in good order, stepping carefully sideways down the steep trail. As the sandy soil gave way to loose gravel, they both began to slip. They paused when they reached the foot of the first falls and looked up at the flow of the water in the sunlight. They felt the drops blown into their faces by the ocean breeze and listened: the water fell straight and swift, and as it landed, splashed in a pool. Gathering itself for a brief, still moment, it rushed off to take the next fall.

When they started off again, descending parallel to the second of the falls, Gen slipped and lost his footing. He picked himself up and started again, slowly, crabwise, making it about twenty feet before he fell again. He gave up after a few more unsuccessful tries, and bumped along scrabbling downward with his hands, bouncing his rear end on the path. He could hear Lynn behind him, laughing as she managed to stay upright for a bit longer, and then laughing even more as she joined him.

“Gen, we may not be graceful, but we're getting there,” she called. “And at least we're closer to the falls. We're no longer creatures of the high ground, looking down on them. We're with them; we're embracing them.”

When they reached the beach, they staggered to their feet, squaring their knapsacks on their backs as they looked up at the last of the falls, and taking in the spectacle of the whole series stepping their way to the beach.

“Amazing,” said Gen.

“As I promised you,” she said.

They moved across the beach, from wet to dry sand and then back to wet again as they skirted the tide pools. At one of the largest Lynn took his hand and walked him to the edge. She kept her hand in his even as they squatted to look more closely.

“Look,” she said, “it's a chiton,” and proceeded to point out the shapes of the mollusk's eight shells hidden below its outer skin. She explained how the creature moves and told Gen that the ones along the Pacific coast, like this gumboot chiton, were the largest of all the chitons. “And the Miwok probably ate them too.”

When Gen said he was impressed that she knew all of these details, she said, “Well, people think Bobby is just a computer geek, but he knows a lot about nature. He's made sure I know at least a little about our flora and fauna. And you have to admit, Gen, that he was right about this hike. Even if the last bit was difficult, this is the most wonderful place. We have the beach entirely to ourselves.”

“And, look,” she continued, her eyes fastened again on the tide pool, “there's a little limpet just near the chiton.”

As she leaned over and pointed, Gen lost his balance; their hands fell apart and he dropped to one of his knees to steady himself. When he got up, he took out his camera and snapped away, capturing the details of the intricate world in the tide pool.

They retreated up the beach to where the sand was dry, spread out a faded Mexican tablecloth Lynn pulled from her knapsack, and got out their lunches.

“What did you and Yuko come up with this morning, Gen-chan?” Lynn said, trying out the affectionate suffix she had heard Yuko use that morning when she walked Gen to the car and wished them both a good day.

“You'll have to see, but I think you'll like it.”

“You too,” she said. She pulled figs, carefully packed in a plastic lunch box, from her pack, and Gen unwrapped rice balls with centers of fresh chopped
shiso
and
umeboshi,
pickled plum paste.

“And,” Lynn said triumphantly, “mint chocolate cookies along with oranges for desert. We'll need the energy for the climb back up to the trail.”

When
they finally crested the slope and were within sight of the trail again, they met a group of six who were debating whether the trip to the beach could be done, and if it would be worth it. Lynn and Gen laughed as they assured them that it was worth it.

“But,” she said, “you shouldn't try it if your dignity is really important to you. We promise you you'll be in awkward positions on the way down.”

As Gen and Lynn tightened each other's knapsacks, they witnessed the end of the debate and then the plunge of each member of the group, one after another, down the trail. It wasn't long before the shouts and laughter from below floated back up to the trail. “We told them that dignity would go,” he said, as they turned and began the hike back.

They didn't stop until they had passed Pelican Lake and were again on the shore of the first lake they had encountered that morning. “Now you'll see why I hustled you along,” Lynn said. “I wanted to get back here while it was still light.” She knelt down and pulled a towel out of her knapsack. She stood up quickly and had stepped out of her pants, pulled her shirt over her head, and dived into the lake before Gen had really registered that she was wearing a bathing suit under her clothes.

“Gen,” she called when she surfaced a third of the way across the lake, “you didn't happen to wear a bathing suit, did you?”

“No, was I supposed to?”

“No, I did just in case. I wasn't sure it would be sunny, and I wasn't sure we'd have time. I'd suggest skinny-dipping, but it really is cold in here. Glorious, but cold.”

She took a few strokes on her back. “I have to keep moving or I'll freeze. I won't be able to last much more than a few minutes longer.”

As she predicted, it wasn't long before she climbed out of the lake and balanced herself on a large flat stone. He handed over her towel, noticing another long scar that snaked around the thigh of her right leg, longer and deeper than the ones on her face. After she had rubbed herself dry, she wrapped a sarong around her legs and stretched, reaching toward the sky as she laughed with sheer joy at where she was and what she had done. “The sun is so beautiful, and it feels great after being in the water.”

With a few graceful steps she moved to where she had left her knapsack. She pulled her camera out and handed it over to him before moving back to the stone.

“Take my picture,” she said, tilting her chin up and smiling at Gen.

He held her image in the viewfinder for a moment. He was silent, and she stood patient and content, waiting for him. As he clicked the shutter, he realized that this is how he would always remember her, fearless and beautiful. How she would fill his thoughts, steady his resolve, and rule his heart. Lynn, his Lynn.

Nara, 2000

Akiko was winded
by the walk from the bus stop. As she stood in the
genkan
catching her breath, Michiko observed the walking shoes, the characterless black pants, the turtleneck, and the long dull red vest straining over an ample middle. Akiko struggled out of her shoes, and as she stepped slowly up into the room, Michiko realized that her guest was plagued by arthritis. The much-gossiped-about hussy had bad knees. Despite the decade that separated them, she too was an old woman.

As soon as she had opened the door, Michiko regretted her dress and make-up. As Akiko presented her
omiyage
, obviously a fancy sweet, Michiko decided there would be no tea in the
tatami
room. “Let's sit in the dining room,” she said as she led the way to the back of the house. “Even though it's too chilly to open the windows, the sliding screens are open in the
tatami
room, and we can see out to the garden from the dining room table.”

Michiko brought tea and slices of cake to the table. The vernal equinox holiday would be in two days. The garden was wet from the morning's rain and the sky still gray, but the buds on the weeping cherry promised spring. A single branch of forsythia was arranged with pussy willow in a vase in the
tokonoma
, and the scroll hanging above it had a Soseki quote and brush strokes that suggested a cat. More yellow branches were a bright blur in the neighbor's garden.

Akiko kept a hand-quilted
furoshiki
in her lap. Whatever was wrapped in it was neither large nor heavy. Michiko wondered why Akiko had used one of the old-fashioned carrying cloths for something that could have fit in her purse. When she admired the
furoshiki
, Akiko smiled and said, “Oh, yes, my sister Junko made this. She's become quite interested in these old
sashiko
patterns in the last few years”; but as she spoke Akiko tightened her hold; the
furoshiki
remained in her lap.

Akiko picked up her tea cup, and Michiko said, “I hope you like the cake. I have to confess that I used the event of your visit to buy my favorite.”

Akiko looked at her plate and smiled. “
Yuzu?
” she asked. “I love it too. The house I grew up in Ukawa was surrounded by
mikan
groves. This taste reminds me of home. I wonder if people who grew up in Tohoku or Hokkaido feel about citrus fruits the way we did in Shikoku.”

“Or Kyushu,” said Michiko.

The thought of Kyushu reminded Michiko of a family trip to Kagoshima: the lava fields, Shotaro luxuriating in the warmth of the black sand baths, and Tetsutaro eating
bonton ame
and saying, “Mama, I like these funny citrus candies. It's fun to eat the wrapping. How does it disappear?” And then she was back on
Okaido
, with Sam, headed for the Castle to watch the sunset and laughing about the
bonton ame
she had found on a dusty high shelf in the storeroom behind the shop. She remembered the sensations as the candy melted in her mouth and the last of the sunlight faded from the summer sky.

“We're both Ehime girls,” said Akiko. “It's embarrassing, but what I brought is a
yuzu
cake too. Actually, the exact same one. I'm sorry.”

“Not at all. You now know I'll enjoy it as much as you do. I'm another Ehime girl.”

They laughed, and as their laughter died away, the moment was gone. They were no longer Ehime girls; they were old ladies, widows. They started again, proceeding slowly, with full formality and careful politeness. Michiko accepted Akiko's condolences and answered questions about her son, her daughter-in-law, her grandson. After a pause, it was she who mentioned Sam's name. She offered Akiko condolences, saying she was sure there must have been a number of celebrations of the life of such a distinguished teacher. Akiko appeared eager to take up this theme and recounted stories about events in Himeji, Atsugi, and San Francisco. She talked about Sam's students and Sam's students' students. She talked about a
gaijin
speaking Japanese at the memorial in Atsugi, about the ceremony to hang a portrait in the college in Himeji, and how she suspected her husband's colleagues had drunk themselves silly after she had been seen safely off in a taxi. And then she talked about the Japanese, Chinese, Egyptian, Colombian, Brazilian, Saudi, German, and Swiss students all giving speeches in English in San Francisco, in a chilly room at the top of a tower with a sweeping view of the City, the Bay, and its bridges. She pulled photos from her purse. Michiko, dutifully polite, leaned forward to look. The photos showed earnest youngsters grinning out of their black, brown, tan, and deathly pale faces. Middle-aged, clumsy-looking teachers appeared at the ends of rows, all of them too fat, too tall, or none-too-well groomed.

Akiko stopped when she was about half way through the stack of photos. She reached for the envelope to put them away, but Michiko pointed to the one that was now on top—an off-center photo with a black-sleeved arm in the lower right hand corner and wilted flowers floating in choppy green water. “Wait,” she said. “Tell me about this one, please.”

Akiko took a deep breath, sipped her tea, and said, “I wish I still smoked.”

“Good God, so do I, but there's a limit to the foolishness we're allowed now, isn't there?”

“He wanted his ashes scattered in San Francisco Bay. Do you know that American song about leaving your heart in San Francisco?” She hummed a bit before she continued, “Well, I decided to do it. We did nothing at the temple. He always said he didn't want it, didn't want any priests. So Junko, our neighbors, and some of his colleagues helped me celebrate. On the forty-ninth day commemoration, I decided to do what he wanted about San Francisco.

“Evidently, having their ashes scattered in San Francisco Bay is something many Americans want to do. So Sam's wish wasn't unique, but I quickly found that there were a lot of rules and restrictions. I was lucky because one of his former students now does environmental work and arranged all the licenses.

“Junko went with me—there she is in this picture—and my neighbor Harumi. Sam used to joke that she was his last student. She's using the English he taught her in medical school in Australia now.”

Michiko examined another photo of a small group on a boat—Junko, an older, dour version of Akiko, Harumi, young, slim, and stylish, and a small group of some of the same foreigners from the other photos.

“Junko has been such a help to me. I don't think I could have gotten on a plane with my husband's ashes in a shopping bag if I hadn't had my sister with me. And without her I couldn't have let him go, have left him there, knowing I'd have to come back here to be alone.”

The silence between them filled with the sounds of birds in the garden, a scolding squirrel, laughter of children on their way home from school, and the faint resonance of a temple bell. Michiko said, “I still think of
kaki
kueba
almost every time I hear that bell,” and the two of them recited Shiki's words aloud together:
Kaki kueba / Kane ga naru nari / Horyuji.
As I bite into a persimmon / A bell begins to ring / Horyuji.

As they finished, Ehime girls again, Akiko gathered up the photos and tucked them into her purse. “I shouldn't have been so melodramatic. I'm actually quite happy I was able to make the gesture he wanted. And I've asked his former students in San Francisco, the ones in those pictures—they're teachers themselves now—to help get his memoir published. It's just a manuscript in English at this point, but I know they'll get it done.”

“He would have appreciated his wife making sure he had exactly the funeral he wanted and making sure he ended up where he thought he left his heart,” Michiko said with a smile. She used the word
okusan
, giving Akiko the proper, formal, and honorific title for wife and thus fully acknowledging her status. When Michiko finished speaking, they fell silent again.

Finally, looking down at the
furoshiki
rather than at her hostess, Akiko said, “You know, Michiko, he always loved you—until the very end.” She looked up and held out the
furoshiki.
“That's why I brought this for you. I found it in his bottom desk drawer. Take it. Please.”

Michiko reached across the table. When she had the
furoshiki
in front of her, Akiko said, “It's not just another
omiyage
. Don't put it aside. This is why I invited myself today. This I want you to open.” Michiko unfolded the
furoshiki
slowly, and the silence came again. This time it was deep and long, the silence of loss, regret, and history. Around them the ancient capital grew quiet in the deepening shadows. Without another word, Akiko rose from the table and walked back to the
genkan
. After she had put on her shoes, she stood with her back to the room and said, “I must get going. If I don't hurry, I'll miss the train back to Kyoto and then won't be able to catch the express that will get me home. Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

As she put her hand on the doorknob, she turned back. Michiko was kneeling and bowing at the edge of the
genkan
, whispering her thanks. “
Samazama
,” Akiko said. “
Samazama
,” answered the other Ehime girl. They didn't need the rest of the words. Michiko remained kneeling in place long after the lock clicked into place, until all the light faded out of the afternoon, until her own knees ached.

Almost five
months later, Michiko again sat at the dining room table, surprised that the radio reports on the anniversary of the end of the war had so washed her in memories and melancholy that she again had the
furoshiki
in front of her. She told herself that the package that had arrived from Himeji the week before was another reason for what she was doing. The thick manuscript Akiko had mailed was nearby, on a shelf in the sideboard.

She was dressed as she preferred: a loosely cut white shirt over slim black slacks. With the veranda windows open, the obliterating heat of the day extended inside and filled the house. What wasn't occupied by the heat was filled with the swelling and ebbing cries of cicadas. Michiko had a glass of icy
mugicha
at her right hand. She moved slowly, as the heat and the noise commanded. Junko's tiny white stitches made an impressive, intricate pattern and a strong contrast with the indigo cloth of the
furoshiki
. Michiko ran her fingers over the pattern, took a sip of the cool tea, and then sat still for a full minute before she untied the
furoshiki
. She slid the contents out and put the carrying cloth aside. Then she unfolded the
senninbari
and spread it out over the table.