The Gatekeeper's Son (5 page)

I tossed the pillow aside and glared at the ceiling. As usual, my eyes went to the nail hole in the third board from the left. My dad hadn’t been able to see it when I pointed it out to him after I finished installing the ceiling by myself. He thought it was damn good work for a twelve-year-old. I didn’t mind woodworking, but I liked architecture more, like the bookstore project, so helping with this house had been great. It wasn’t your typical San Francisco dwelling—it was a modern structure of concrete, steel, and glass, with so many windows and skylights that even on cloudy days no corner was untouched by daylight, not even the laundry room.

The noise in the kitchen had stopped. I checked the clock again. It was 6:58, time for revenge of the ninja.

I tiptoed to my bedroom door. Okaasan had already opened the blinds, and light streamed in. I watched her walk along the gravel pathway in the Zen garden flapping her arms, apparently doing some kind of stretches, or perhaps she’d decided to start flying. I snickered. She turned and glanced toward my room and then continued to stretch.

I ducked back into my room. When I peeked again, she was gone.

I moved like a ghost past Tama, our chubby white tabby cat, who lay in the hall. She watched me with bored eyes as I sneaked past. I paused when a noise came from the kitchen. It was my dad, pulling on his work boots by the back door.

“Morning, James.”

“Hi, Dad.”

“What are you up to?”

I grinned. “I’m going to sneak up and scare Mom.”

“Good luck with that. See you later.”

As soon as he left, I moved toward the open glass door in the living room. Okaasan sat on a yoga mat near the koi pond, her back to me. Across the pond was the dojo my dad had built for our training room. It was a reproduction of a large traditional Japanese teahouse, complete with a steep straw roof. Dad’s workshop was behind that, out of sight against the back fence.

My friends and I used to play samurai-versus-ninja here when we were young, running and yelling and tearing up the yard. Okaasan was a patient woman. She’d never said a word to us, not even when we tried to catch the koi fish with dad’s fishing gear.

Speaking of ninja, I could climb above the doorway and drop behind her as she came in, but I’d tried that before—and was painfully unsuccessful. Instead, I started toward her, planting each foot carefully. I knew that the sand and the waterfall would mask any sounds. She was bent down now, her back to me, her head near her feet. I moved as silently as a soft breeze.

“Junya?”

I froze with one foot suspended in the air, still several feet away from her. “Yes, Okaasan.”

“What are you doing?” She was still facing away from me.

“I’m conducting a test.”

“And did you pass this test?”

I put my foot down with a thump. “No, but you did.”

“Why don’t you try to impress me with your skills in the dojo instead?”

I turned and tromped back into the house. I glanced back at her. She was in a downward-facing dog position now, her butt sticking up in the air.

Okaasan had practiced martial arts since she was a kid. I wished she’d picked another hobby, preferably something that didn’t involve me. I’ll admit, though, that for a woman fast approaching forty and smaller than me, she could sure kick my butt.

The dojo was a good-size building, with half the floor covered in hardwood, the other half laid with
tatami
mats, a type of woven grass that was softer to fall on. Along the back wall, rows of racks held her implements of death.

When I got to the dojo, Okaasan had opened the shoji panels, the sliding rice-paper doors, to let the sun in, and she’d already begun. She looked focused as she performed her
kata
, the repetitive routines used in martial arts.

We started with
iaijutsu
, a Japanese sword technique from something like the fourteenth century. Just like a cowboy’s “fast draw,” iaijutsu taught the samurai to draw his katana—while kneeling—and strike an opponent down in one fluid motion. Okaasan told me iaijutsu is moving meditation, a Zen art, but it looked pretty deadly if you asked me. Still, I rarely complained—it required concentration but never hurt.

Some days we did a little mother-son hand-to-hand combat, which did hurt, and was why I’d been able to snap a bully’s elbow in third grade. Of course, once Okaasan heard about that, she forbade me to ever fight again.

Okaasan’s favorite martial art was
kendo
. She called it “the way of the sword” and got misty-eyed when she talked about it, like she was passing me her dead grandmother’s tea set. Kendo is fast and kind of funny to watch: two opponents run toward each other in body armor, hitting their opponent with bamboo
shinai
, all the while yelling at the top of their voices.

I couldn’t stop any of her attacks today, which was nothing new.

“Junya,” she said when she let me rest for a moment, “this is Zen, the goal is mindlessness. Stop thinking and let your body respond.” She attacked again, striking me with her shinai while I fell back, barely able to stay on my feet.

She pulled off her mask.

“You’re better than this.” She looked frustrated. “Your mind is holding your body back.” She pulled off her armor and planted her bare feet in a fighting stance. “Perhaps you can redeem yourself.”

“Oh, come on.” But she was already coming toward me.

I backed away from her, hands up, wary. As I circled away, she attacked, her hands and feet hitting fast and hard. I blocked and managed to force her back a few times.

“That’s good,” she said, “but you haven’t hit me yet.” She was fast and agile, and three times after that I hit the ground in pain, one of my limbs in a joint lock.

“Do something!” she yelled as she came at me again. I blocked her first strike, but she got through and took me down hard.

I lay on the tatami, not wanting to move, angry with her and with myself. I finally stood up and pulled my clothes and my pride back into place.

“You don’t even try,” she said, her hands on her hips.

“What’s the point?” I glared. “I can’t use any of this stuff! When guys hassle me at school, I try to keep away, but—”

She looked contemptuous. “So, because your mother says you can’t fight, you run away like a scared mouse?”

“That’s what you told me to do!”

“I never said that.” Then a sly smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Do you think you could beat Mack in a fight?”

I hesitated. Mack and I would push and body-check when we shot hoops, but in a real fight? “I don’t know. He’s huge.”

She smirked. “What about his little sister then?”

I spun toward her as energy swelled inside me. “You don’t—”

I blocked a shot to my head and took a punch to the stomach. She hit, I blocked, she hit, I blocked again. Finally, I found an opening and struck her neck. She faltered but didn’t stop. A moment later, I hit the mats hard but surprised both of us when I jumped back up.

She fired a kick at my leg and her next punch landed harder than she’d expected. When she hesitated, I didn’t. I hit her in the face, which shook her, and moved in close. The next thing I knew, she was falling toward the tatami. But she never got there. She cartwheeled on one hand—a move I’d never seen before—and attacked. My feet left the ground and I belly flopped onto the tatami. My breath burst from my lungs.

She stared down at me. “You’re getting strong, Junya, … and fast.” She bent down and helped me to my feet.

“But never fast enough.” I started to ask about that cartwheel move, but I noticed her face. It was already changing from red to blue. I cringed.

“Don’t worry. You’ll still get your breakfast.” She stared at me for a moment and then said, “You haven’t talked about trouble at school in a while. I assumed that was over.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s never over. Tyler calls me the bastard son of Edward Thompson.”

She looked shocked. “He knows who your grandfather is?”

I shook my head. “Mack says everyone thinks I’m a wimp because I let him get away with it.”

She stared out at the garden. “Weak dogs bark loudly.”

I sighed. She’d never understand. Tyler didn’t need psychoanalysis, he needed a kick in the head.

“But Mack’s right,” she said.

I raised an eyebrow.

“Appearing weak attracts trouble, but there’s a big difference between being weak and choosing not to fight.” She headed to the door. “Make sure you clean everything up.”

I glared at her back. “That’s why this is a waste of time. Even if I’m good at this, I still have to let people beat on me.”

She paused at the door and looked back. “Are you stupid?”

“I don’t know, am I?”

Now she looked mad. “As your master, I will not give you permission to fight. You don’t realize your capabilities—you nearly broke my jaw today.” She fell silent for a moment while she assessed me. “But you don’t need permission to defend yourself. Use your brain, Junya. It’s not a decoration.”

She walked toward the house and I started to wipe the dojo floor, grumbling under my breath. I was sweaty and my shirt was heavy, so I took it off and let the cool breeze wash over my bare chest. Maybe it would cool my anger as well.

I was on the way to the sword rack, going through a few routines and listening to Okaasan’s katana whistle through the air, when I passed the full-length mirror. The lighting in here was different from in my bathroom, where I saw my reflection most often. Out here, the soft light created shadows that highlighted my chest and shoulder muscles.

I didn’t look like a wimpy kid. I looked strong. I stared at my reflection for a long time. Okaasan was right—I was stupid.

CHAPTER

5

On my way to the kitchen I stopped to scratch Tama, who still lay in the hallway. She stretched herself out so I could reach her whole belly. Then I ran and slid on my socks and came to a stop in front of the kitchen door.

At least that was the idea. Actually, I overshot by a few feet and hit the concrete wall beside the doorway. I thought I heard a snicker.

Okaasan was busy cooking and wore an apron now, bright red with little cartoon cats all over it. Her long hair was tied into a loose bun.

She smiled at me. “Thank you for cleaning up.”

I grunted and sat at the table, already set with cutlery. A glass of milk awaited me alongside the weekend newspaper. From the front page of the unopened business section, Edward Thompson stared back at me. The caption asked who would replace him if he died.

I shoved the business section away and grabbed the comics.

A cheery electronic tune sang out from the control panel on the kitchen wall, announcing that the washing machine was done with its cycle. Okaasan punched a few buttons and silenced the music. She stared at the panel with her head tilted to one side and then nodded. “This is way better than doing laundry in the creek,” she said.

That was a new one. I knew her life had changed a lot since she moved to San Francisco, but washing clothes in the creek?

She placed my plate and her cup of tea on the table and sat across from me.

“Have you heard anything about Grandpa?” I asked. “Real news, that is.”

“He seems to be doing fine.” She shrugged. “He’ll have to stay there a few days for more tests, though.”

“Good luck with that.”

“I’ll drag him back in if he tries to sneak out.”

I laughed. “I’ll go see him after school tomorrow if he’s still there.” Then I remembered. “I gotta go to his house today. I forgot my laptop yesterday.”

Okaasan nodded and then pointed to my plate. “Eat. I didn’t cook it for you to stare at.”

The omelet was delicious, filled with chopped peppers and onions and chunks of ham and covered with melted mozzarella. Pieces of peeled apple and a thick slice of sourdough toast were on the side. I didn’t look up again until every morsel was gone. Then I sat back with my glass of milk in hand and let out a small burp.

“
That
was delicious.”

“You’re welcome.” She often complained that it took three times as long to cook food as it did for me to eat it, but I knew she was happy when I enjoyed her cooking.