A Cruel Season for Dying (3 page)

In Kyoto the Japanese instinct for elegance and restraint had been tempered by the realities of day-to-day living in the simple
home of Hanae’s parents. The cages of their daughter’s finches had shared space with the family, bedding and clothing stored
beneath the raised
tatami
floor, a large
tansu
holding most of the family’s smaller treasures. Rooms were created with screens that could easily be moved. And though Hanae’s
marriage had taken her from one crowded island to another,
James Sakura had made a promise not to deny his wife when she’d asked to bring her birds.

Since he had come home, Sakura had spoken little more than a dozen words to Hanae; they had not touched. The touching would
come later when they drew back the
tsutsugaki,
the quilt cover that was a wedding gift from Hanae’s parents, and lay together for the night. For now, he was taking immense
pleasure in sitting on the
tatami
rug of their living room and watching his wife move from one cage to another. When he was working on a major case, the birds,
as well as Taiko her dog, kept as irregular hours as he and Hanae.

She reached and closed the last of the cages that held her beloved finches. He watched her place a seed in her mouth and move
her face against the metal cage.
Tee-tee-tee.
She made a kind of trumpeting sound, and the dominant bird came closer to pluck the seed from between her teeth. Then she
walked over to a worktable and removed a cloth shrouding a mass of clay.

At first her fingers moved lightly over the surface of the bulky shape. Then they constricted, working the mass deliberately.
The arms that slipped from her kimono sleeves appeared startlingly naked, and Sakura thought that the flat of his wife’s hands
seemed too plump and childish for her slim delicate fingers.

“You and Taiko should find other work,” she said without turning.

“We enjoy watching you.” He reached to scratch behind the dog’s ears.

“And what do you see?”

“That your fingers are too long for your hands.”

“And …?” She turned then, fixing him with her sightless eyes.

“That my wife is naked beneath her kimono.”

“Japanese men do not lust after their wives.”

“I’m American.”

At this Hanae laughed. “You are right. Sometimes I think that except for your thin face and lidless eyes, there is little
of your Japanese ancestors in you.” She returned to her modeling, the light from the
chochin
reflecting in the blackness of her hair.

“Did you go to art class this afternoon?”

“Yes, I’m still working on the birds. Ms. Nguyen is a very patient teacher.”

“What is
this
you’re sculpting?”

“I am not sure. My hands will tell me when they are ready.”

He knew it was a lie. The bust was going to be a surprise for Christmas. He could recognize his features already forming in
the crude mass.

She moved her fingers deeper into the moist clay. “Vicky called today.”

“And how do they like Minneapolis?”

“She said it is not Manhattan.”

“Not a very good review,” he said. “You’re going to miss her, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “I’ve never had a friend like Victoria.”

“You’ll find someone else.”

She shrugged. “I have a lot to keep me busy.”

“I can see that.” He stood and walked behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders, his thumbs finding the nape of her neck.
“It looks like a head.”

“It will be.” She let her hands fall into her lap. “How is your investigation going?”

Despite his efforts, she had sensed his mood. “This appears to be a serial case,” he answered. “They are always difficult.”

She dipped her hands in the bowl of water, then wiped them with the towel. “Have you spoken to Kenjin?” She turned her face
up to him.

The question had surprised him. A moment passed when even his breath was silent. “No,” he said. “I haven’t talked to Michael
for a while.”

“I think this time you may need him.”

“He won’t come back, Hanae.”

“But it is not impossible?”

“Michael was cleared of any wrongdoing. It was his decision to resign.”

She pulled him down to her, taking his face in her hands. “Tell me about that night.”

He had no wish to reopen the wounds that had scarred, if not healed, in the time that had passed. But his wife’s instincts
were a deep, slow-stirring sea. He did not question the tides that moved her.

“A suspect was killed,” he said to her.

“This much I know, Jimmy.” She waited.

“The suspect didn’t have a weapon,” he said finally.

She sighed, as if the knowledge were a release. “But Kenjin shot him.”

“Michael thought the man was firing at us,” he explained. “He believed he saw a powder flash.”

“What happened?”

“Backup arrived. Barney Edleman saw right away we had a bad shooting. He pulled out a drop piece he had under the seat of
the patrol car.”

“A drop piece?”

“A gun that couldn’t be traced. Michael said no. But Edleman said he was crazy, throwing away his career for someone like
Robby Hudson.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I watched Edleman wrap Hudson’s hand around the grip, then wipe his own prints off the barrel before he tossed it
in some trash. The report read that the weapon was found in the search, that the suspect must have dropped it as he fell.”

“Kenjin allowed this?”

“I was the officer of record. It was my name on the report.”

The pressure of her fingers softened on his cheeks. “And Kenjin resigned.”

He shook his head. “It was a couple months later that the offer came for me to attend the program at Quantico. That was when
Michael resigned.”

“Because you accepted?”

“Because Michael was afraid I wouldn’t. I had lied to keep him on the force. He would never resign as long as I was there.
And he knew I understood that.”

Her hands still cupped his face. He reached for them, took them into his. “Michael changed after the shooting, Hanae. He didn’t
trust himself. He was trying to regain his balance.”

“He was depending on you.”

“Yes. But I failed him. My lie betrayed him more than the truth.”

“The guilt you feel is foolish, my husband. As is your anger. You chose once for Kenjin. In the end he chose for himself.”

“I didn’t like what I did. I still don’t. But Michael was a good detective. He should have remained on the force.”

“Your faith in him was greater than his own. But time has passed,” she said. “Will you ask him to return?”

His wife’s commands, ever gentle, rested in the guise of questions.

Father Andrew Kellog measured an extra finger of bourbon into his glass and walked to the parlor window that gave a view to
the street. He had thought he’d heard Father Graff’s Jeep, but pulling back the curtain, he could see nothing outside but
the dark and silent patch of failing neighborhood. The black pane of glass breathed coldness, and he stepped back, pulling
the robe tighter around him in the under-heated room. The living quarters at St. Sebastian were as old and unre-modeled as
the church itself. And while a lack of change might be deemed a virtue in a building that mimicked twelfth-century Gothic,
for the two priests assigned to the outmoded Brooklyn rectory, the neglect meant mostly discomfort.

He took a sip of the drink, then shuffled like the old man he was becoming to the recliner in front of the TV. He should be
thankful for the archdiocesan attention, which the younger priest’s assignment to St. Sebastian represented. But charity was
in as short supply as faith and hope in his heart—virtues lost not through some brave battle with temptation, but drained
away softly in the acid rain of years. Was it the world that had changed, or had he? Was it time or the devil that had curdled
his soul?

As always, he regretted the bitterness of his thoughts, and in all his more honest moments, he acknowledged that he was not
cut out to be a pastor, and in the old days never would have been one. Now, with the shortage of priests, men more than twenty
years younger than he were getting their own parishes, better and richer parishes than St. Sebastian. Thomas Graff, he knew,
would be presented just such a plum for his work in parish renewal.

He reached down to the space heater and turned up the dial, welcoming the warm blast of air on his feet. On the television
the news had ended, and a cop show, decades old, was playing. The violence seemed stilted, infinitely less real than the daily
dramas that played in
the nearby streets. He keyed in the time on the remote:
11:52
in glowing blue-green appeared in the corner of the screen. Surely, Father Graff had not forgotten that it was his turn for
early Mass tomorrow.

He frowned, sipping again at the drink, allowing a memory of the old days when the church had been full. Perhaps the chronic
bad weather had something to do with it, but even with all Graff’s efforts there seemed to be fewer and fewer people scattered
in the pews. Though Marian’s husband, of all people, had been there this morning.

Light rose and skittered across the curtains. This time, unmistakably, he heard the sounds of the Jeep. In a few moments Thomas
Graff came into the foyer. Despite the cold, he wore no coat over athletic pants and jacket. He looked boyish with his duffel
bag and the baseball cap riding his fair hair. With a pang of what he acknowledged as jealousy, Father Kellog thought of how
quickly the women, young and old, had taken to Father Graff.

He watched the man take off his cap as he came into the room. The priest greeted him and smiled.

“Cold out?” Kellog sought conversation.

“Pretty cold.” Graff nodded. “Mrs. Callahan thinks it’ll snow before Christmas.” He was unfailingly pleasant. A subtle condescension.

“You saw Mrs. Callahan?”

“Her daughter asked me to drop by and bring her Communion. I visited a friend after that.” Graff looked at his watch. “Later
than I thought,” he said. “Mass tomorrow. I better get some sleep.”

Father Kellog nodded his good-night, watching as the younger man bounded up the stairs. Thomas Graff was not quite as youthful
as he appeared, but he kept fit, running most mornings he didn’t say Mass.

The hall clock struck midnight. The deep chimes seemed incomplete and ominous. He looked down into his drink, finished it.
He picked up the remote, settling back in his chair. Flipping through the channels, he searched for a movie in black and white,
putting off bed and the silence of his cold room.

S
leep fell away like leaden weight. Sakura’s eyes snapped opened.
5:47
in the morning. He reached to switch off the alarm before it sounded, and settled back down under the sheets. Turning toward
Hanae, he saw that against the stark white of the pillow, her black hair spread like fine dark silk. He bent and kissed it,
inhaling its scent. Rain. Not city rain. But the rainfall of his childhood near the sea.

Slowly he lifted the covers and sat up, swinging his feet to the
tatami
-covered floor. Standing, he caught his reflection across the room. The watery gray light drained the remaining color from
his already too pale skin. He moved his hand down his chest, loosening his pajama bottoms. His naked image always surprised
him.

He remembered another day, another reflection. He had been visiting his Kyoto cousins; his uncle Ikenobo, a Shinto priest,
had traveled from Nagasaki. It was early spring and his uncle wanted him to make a pilgrimage to Fushimi Inari with him. Thousands
of vermilion-colored stone
torii
marked the path as they climbed up the steep mountain to the shrine. It was a difficult journey, but he wanted to please
his uncle and was anxious to offer prayer at the holy place. However, when they neared the summit, he became both confused
and disappointed. Beyond a single large
torii,
there was nothing at the mountaintop but a pile of stones. He searched his uncle’s face, but it was empty of all expression,
as fixed as the stones before him.