across the field, stopping himself from running. “Hey, hey!” he yelled, the way he always did, without using her name, as if she were anyone to him.
He arrived at the base of the tower, and once she saw him there she gave in instantly. As if all she’d wanted, all along, was for him to come for her. I knew it, for hadn’t I felt that impulse, used that child’s ruse, myself? She tugged at her skirt and began climbing down, almost daintily now. But just when she was about to reach him, she balked. She screamed and pointed past my house towards the creek. I heard Tam’s name cried out, and her legs bounced, poised to climb again. Then he grabbed her. I’d come down my lawn by then, crossed the road, and as I hurried onto the field I saw that man’s brute fist grabbing Sachi’s skirt, pulling her as she screamed and screamed, her eyes darting and blinking all at once, like the light inside a siren. Once he got her, he slung her over his shoulder as if she were one of his two-by-fours to be nailed down in his unfinished basement, only she wasn’t a piece of board, she flopped and kicked. He nodded at me as I ran up, some sort of polite gesture. His face was heated, red, his eyes only half rising from the ground as he kept his balance. “Sorry, Miss Saito,” he called, and as he swung towards their house, Sachi glared at me through the web of her hair. She raised a finger in a rude gesture I’d seen other schoolchildren use with one another. “He’s back there!” she screamed. “Go look! Go! For me!” And she strained over her father’s shoulder, tethered there, almost diving into the field, except for the strong carpenter’s hand that clamped her back.
In a few moments they’d disappeared into their house, and I was left standing alone as usual, the ridiculous one. The girl’s cries rang in my ears and I half turned to head for the creek, but I stopped and marched myself back to the house. I bristled at Tom calling me Miss Saito, like some old thing, some old schoolmarm, when he could hardly be much younger. Even Yano called me Saito-san. I shook my head thinking of what Tom would have to contend with once he got her home. Hands grabbing at door handles left and right, holding on with all her might; legs kicking and banging, fighting him in his arms with each step he took down the hall to her room.
It was half-past eleven. Already the sun was overhead. They were somewhere: Yano and Chisako, driving with Tam and Kimi in back, a family. Down a pretty country road, green, with tips of spring colour sprouting in the ditches, somewhere together, for once. A little holiday on a whim, a day or two taken off work, the light in the living-room forgotten, who knows what else. I might have even urged Yano to do just that, had I thought of it.
More chores, and at last I sat down to read my paper, folded as I’d left it. I opened the paper and there it was. I remained calm, numb to it, I suppose. I ran my hand over the picture of Chisako, smudging it with my fingertips, which were suddenly damp. Awful picture. It was her, but before. Beside her, a hakujin, a white man, behind big horn-rimmed glasses so you couldn’t really see him. Couldn’t see his deep-set eyes, or his wavy hair that was dark but not quite black, or how tall he was. Her Mr. Spears.
Woman, man shot in lovers’ lane
, it said.In the chest, both of them, him once, her twice.
Husband, twin son and daughter missing.
It blurred as I tried to read on.
Found by boy and his dog Wednesday evening.
Inked in thick and black, their names for strangers to see:
Mrs. Chisako Yano, Mr. Donaldson Spears. Tamio and Kimiko, Mr. Masashi Yano.
Masashi. Who called him Masashi?
The field was silent. Children should have been out by now, on their way home for lunch, calling to one another, birds weeping to be fed. Something was wrong. Come out, come out, I wanted to call. Across the way, the rows of houses were straighter than ever, drapes drawn except for one.