If You Follow Me (30 page)

“It's
Jyabauokki
time,” Keiko says to Fumiya, who just looks at her and giggles.

“'Twas brillig,” I prompt him, clapping once.

“Wittttthhhhhh,” Fumiya blows into the microphone. The sound crackles through the PA system and he widens his eyes and jumps, frightened by the echo of his echo.

“Twas brillig,” I try again.

“Witttthhhhhhh,” he says again before scratching his chin with the microphone, then lowering his hand to his crotch. He laughs but no one laughs with him. Even Lone Wolf is silent, his cameraman standing beside him, capturing everything on film.

“'Twas brillig,” Koji speaks suddenly in a loud, clear little voice.

“Mo ichi do
,” Keiko urges her younger son, who moves forward to stand next to Fumiya, reaching for his hand. For once the older boy doesn't recoil from touch. He looks down at his little brother and beams. You can tell how much he loves him. “'Twas brillig,” Koji says again, “and the slithy toves, did gyre and gimble in the wabe.” This time, when he pauses, a voice repeats after him, a uninflected voice from the crowd. At the dignitaries' table, the mayor, Miyoshi-sensei's father, is standing up. As he repeats after the little boy, the sound coming out of his voice box is slightly robotic but clear and easy to follow.

“All mimsy,” Koji starts the next line.

“All mimsy!” Fumiya yells, and everyone laughs.

“Were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe,” the mayor finishes.

And this is the segment that ends up on Lone Wolf's variety show, not the story of two mayors signing a sister-city contract—which they do, later that same day—not the story of two rice farm
ers driving tractors across the Noto Peninsula in search of brides, not even the story of two boys using sumo wrestling to settle an old grudge, but the story of two real brothers, neither of whom can answer the question “How are you?” in English, who nonetheless managed to memorize Lewis Carroll's
Jabberwocky
and recite it in front of everyone in town, with the help of a man whose own voice had all but vanished.

chiru:
(
V
.)
to fall; to scatter; to dissolve; to break up; to die a noble death

O
n the Monday morning after the festival, I arrive in the faculty room and find Miyoshi-sensei waiting for me at my desk. He has a cup of tea in each hand. “Thank you for yesterday,” he says, handing me a cup.

“You're welcome,” I say, “but I didn't do much. I'm glad it wasn't a disaster.”

“Me too,” he says.

“Did your father have fun?”

“I think so. All night, he continued repeating this poem, over and over. I don't know why he likes it so much. Maybe it's memory lane trip for him. But memory of what?” I laugh, then stop as the principal enters the faculty room, addressing Miyoshi-sensei in formal Japanese. “Principal has some important thing to discuss,” he translates, “concerning Miss Marina's special methods for teaching English.”

“Okay,” I say, braced for the worst. No doubt he wants to discuss the class he walked into on Friday, the posters on the wall, the condom I shoved into Nakajima's hand. The air in the principal's private office is already dense with smoke, as acrid as an airport smoking
lounge, but he lights up another cigarette before sitting down. He pulls a piece of paper from his desk drawer. I can't see through the haze, but I'm sure it must be my sex-ed worksheet. I'll bet that he's going to ask me to explain my own risky behavior before he sends me packing.

“Last year in August,” Miyoshi-sensei says, “I became your supervisor. This means I am responsible for you. Also, this means that if you do something, bad or good, then it reflects on me and I look bad or good as well. It's Japanese way. This is why I feel so nervous when you don't follow rules, like breaking a
gomi
law. Do you understand?” I nod, looking at his hands, which remain steady as he takes the sheet of paper from the principal, then presents it to me. But it's not my sex-ed worksheet, or a letter detailing my latest errors. Instead it's an official-looking document on thick and creamy card stock, covered in vertical lines of Japanese characters, with a bloodred seal at the bottom. “Principal and I agree. Here at Shika Koko, you have found many ways to make English useful. Useful and fun.” The principal nods, although I suspect he has no idea what's being said. “This is a contract. Principal would like to invite you to renew, to teach for one more year here.”

“Really?” I say. “Even after the sex-ed lesson?”

“Yes,” he says. “I explained usefulness of this lesson, without naming a name, and principal came to understand why you taught such a thing. But he would rather you did not repeat this lesson.”

“Wow,” I say, thinking how brave he was to come to my defense. “Still, I'm surprised he wants me to keep teaching here.”

“To be truthful,” Miyoshi-sensei says, “probably he would offer contract renewal to anyone. It's kind of routine procedure. It's so tiring to explain the rules to a new foreigner over and over, always answering the same questions. Like having a new baby every year. But he sincerely hopes that you will accept this offer.”

“Do you?” I ask, trying to catch his gaze through the smoke.

“My desire is not relevant to this matter,” he says, accepting a cigarette from the principal. “Would you like one?” he asks me.

“Thanks,” I say, “but I think I finally quit. At least I'm trying.”

“Good for you,” he says. “It's very difficult, I know well. I've tried many times.”

“I can help you,” I offer. “My mom sent me another huge box of Nicorette. Whenever you have a craving, just ask me for a piece and I'll give you one.”

“Ah,” he says. “Well, this would be difficult too.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he says, “I have been transferred to a new high school. Nanao Koko, on other side of peninsula.”

“You're switching schools in September?” I ask.

“Not September,” he says. “Japanese school year starts in April.”

“But that's this month!” I exclaim, and he nods. “Who will be my supervisor?”

“Her name is Takeuchi-sensei,” he says. “She is from Monzen, same town as rice farmers. She was transferred from Monzen agricultural high school. Probably Shika will seem huge to her, like Paris or Milano. She may be your supervisor, but you should be her guide.” The principal says something in Japanese and Miyoshi-sensei continues. “So how about contract renewal? Could you make a decision now, or do you need some time to think about what you want to do next?”

“I can't believe you got transferred,” I say.

“Actually,” he says, “I requested this transfer. Nanao High School is high academic. It's kind of a promotion for me. I won't have to supervise foreign English teacher. Instead, I will run English literary journal. Can you imagine such a thing here?” He shakes his head and laughs. “It's good thing I had so much practice writing letters to you.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Good thing I was so difficult to supervise.”

“This is not what I meant,” he says quietly.

The ceiling in this office is low, pressing down on me, reminding me of the low ceilings in interstate motels, the kind of motel where you stay as you drive from one place to another, not bothering to note the name of the stopover town. Shika is a stopover town. Why would I stay here for another year, teaching English to students for whom it has no real use or purpose, only serving to remind them of how stuck they are?

“I can't imagine being here without you,” I say, and when the principal asks for a translation, Miyoshi-sensei says, “She's considering your offer.”

 

As usual, the technical boys are nearly naked. Fingerprints encircle Nakajima's neck and he has a split lip in a shade of purple that matches Haruki's bruised and swollen eye.

“Shitsureishimashita
,” Haruki says, bowing deeply. I have committed a rude.

“In English,” Miyoshi-sensei says. “This is English class. And be direct!”

“I…” Haruki begins.

“Stole,” Miyoshi-sensei prompts him.

“I…stole…
seifuku
.”

“Uniforms,” Miyoshi-sensei translates. “You stole their uniforms.”

“Who cares?” lisps Nakajima in Japanese. “We don't need them. We're almost out of here.”

“Actually, I want mine,” says Sumio, looking down at his pierced nipple. “I'm cold.”

“I want mine too,” another boy chimes in. “It's going to rain to
day, and I'm supposed to go to the city. I don't want to wear my plant uniform. I look like a hick in that thing.”

“I'm supposed to give mine to my little brother,” says a third. “My mom's been threatening to make me pay for the missing one. Those things are expensive.”

“Miss Marina,” Miyoshi-sensei says, turning to face me. “Could you please accompany Haruki to your house? I think there are too many uniforms for him to carry alone, and he should not enter without you.”

Haruki rushes out of the building ahead of me, and I'm glad that we don't have to walk side by side, that I won't have to try to talk to him. My skin still crawls when I think of him sneaking into my house over and over, trying to “sabotage” me by unplugging the refrigerator so that our groceries would go bad, following us to the beach and spying on us there. I know he saw us smoke the joint, but I wonder if he watched us kiss. I wonder how much he reported back to Miyoshi-sensei. Probably everything.

When I get home, Joe's truck is parked in the driveway, windows rolled down. From the entryway, I hear a rhythmic thumping sound in the bedroom. I run upstairs and fling open the door, where I find Joe seated on the floor, drumming his fingers on the back of his guitar while Carolyn stuff s T-shirts into a duff el bag. She looks up and smiles.

“Hey M,” she says. “I'm happy to see you.”

“Sure,” I say. “That's why you came over when you thought I'd be at work.”

“There was an assembly this morning so I got off early,” she says. “Joe was teaching in Hakui so he offered to help me move the rest of my stuff.”

“How sweet,” I say. “That Joe is a real gentleman. Just ask his sixteen-year-old girlfriend, Ritsuko.”

“She's not my girlfriend,” Joe says, towering over me. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Does Carolyn?” I ask, trying to push him out of the way.

“No,” Carolyn says, calmly folding more T-shirts and putting them in her bag, “and I don't care.”

“You don't care that Joe fucked a student? That he took advantage of a freshman?”

“I lost my virginity when I was fifteen,” she says, “to a thirty-year-old guy who worked at the same firm as my father.”

“So that makes it okay?” I cut her off. “Because you were taken advantage of too?”

“I seduced him,” she says, zipping her bag shut. “He treated me like an adult, and he taught me a lot of things, and it wasn't a bad choice.”

“But you were just a kid.” I say, “He had the power.”

“In a way,” she says, “but in a way I did. I could've told someone. And I wasn't being held against my will. I'm the one who ended it.”

“Well, I don't think Ritsuko had a lot of power,” I say, “and I think sixteen is pretty young.” I almost add,
to have an abortion without any support
, but I don't know if she told Joe that she was pregnant, and it's not my secret to divulge.

“I think I love her,” he says, standing with his back to us, looking out the window. “Not that it matters. She won't even return my calls.”

“Really?” Carolyn says. “I thought you wanted a partner. Someone who can speak her mind.”

“I know she's young,” he says without turning around, “but she's amazing.”

“It's true,” I say. “She can speak her mind.” I can't even hate him anymore. Nothing is ever simple. “Why did you come back here?” I ask Carolyn.

“To get the stuff I left behind,” she says.

“That junk?” I laugh. “You never get rid of anything.”

She slings her bag over her shoulder. “I miss you,” she says.

“You didn't even say good-bye.”

“I'm here, aren't I?”

This line sounds oddly familiar, but I can't remember when I heard it before. Then suddenly I do. It was in our dorm lounge, late at night, right after I told her that I was afraid that the wave of grief might wash me away. She held me while I sobbed, and I barely even knew her. She took me to her room. She took care of me. She got me out of there.

“Is someone downstairs?” Joe asks.

“Haruki,” I say.

“What the fuck is the cat killer doing here?” Carolyn says.

“I don't know,” Joe says, “but I think he's taking off with your things.”

 

Downstairs, the door to the storage area is still open and all of the boxes on the shelves are empty. I notice the address written on the side of one of these empty boxes, written in my mother's handwriting. This is the box that used to contain my father's things.

The box that held his remains.

I fly out the door, down the street, catching up with Haruki as he rounds the corner, carrying a bulging black garbage bag over one shoulder. I grab the garbage bag and dump it out on the street, but all I can see are uniforms.

“Where are the things that were in the boxes?” I ask in Japanese.

“Gomi ni narimashita
,” he says. It became garbage.

“When did you throw it away?”

“Earlier this week,” he says.

“What day?” I ask. “What kind of garbage did it become?”

“Moeru gomi
.”

Burnable garbage.

 

I know the rules. Burnable garbage gets collected only on Tuesdays in this neighborhood, from the bin in front of Mister Donuts. It must be thrown in clear plastic trash bags, so everyone can see what you're throwing away. Today is Monday, and the bin in front of Mister Donuts is not just filled with plastic trash bags, it's also surrounded by them, literally buried under them. It looks like a mountain of trash. Mount Garbage.
Gomi-san.

“Maybe it's for the best,” I say to Carolyn, who insisted on coming along after I told her what Haruki threw away. “I didn't know what to do with his stuff. Now I guess I can just forget about it. Move on.” But she won't accept my defeat. She never gets rid of anything, and she won't let me either. I watch her scale the mountain of trash, stepping from bag to bag in her heavy combat boots. With her shredded tights and miniskirt, she looks like a superhero. Garbage Girl. She looks as fierce and androgynous and lovely as ever. Carolyn is not afraid of the ugly parts of life. She doesn't look away, or even want to. Having reached the summit of
Gomi-san
, she calls down to me, asking me to tell her everything that was in the box. I close my eyes and try to remember. “A suede jacket,” I begin, “a camera and some lenses wrapped in tube socks, a dictionary and an orange velour sweatshirt…” The one he bought when I was a baby, because it was the softest thing he could find. My chest hurts like I've been breathing smog.

“Anything else?” she prompts me to go on.

“Just some ashes,” I say, sitting on the curb and burying my face in my hands.

“Ashes?”

“My mom thought I might want to scatter them here. To say good-bye. I couldn't even bring myself to open the baggie. I guess Haruki scattered them for me.”

“Don't worry, we'll get them back,” she says, picking up another bag, examining its contents and pitching it down the side of the mountain. “I'm looking for the orange velour sweatshirt. That should be bright enough to show through the plastic. I doubt the kid threw away a camera.”

“It was really old,” I say. “It probably didn't even work anymore.”