Southern Fried Sushi (5 page)

“Not me. Don’t tell Dave, of course. But one day soon my time here will end, and I’ll move on to the next thing.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Europe. Maybe home.”

We stopped in front of the hanging cloth curtain, split in the middle, that indicated Momiji. I lifted it aside and stepped into the brightly lit room filled with rustic wooden tables. The cozy yellow glow reached out to welcome us like a friendly relative.

“
Irashaimase!”
chirped the crisply uniformed girl, bowing in greeting. “Welcome!”

I stared at her hair: a dark caramel color, cut in long curls with fashionable shaggy bangs swooping to one side. I pulled out my reporter’s pad and made a tick.

“Argh.” Kyoko turned her eyes heavenward. “The hair-color thing again. Give it up, Ro-chan!”

“Wait and see. I’ll include it in my master’s thesis somehow.”

She flickered the first hint of a smile I’d seen in a while. “The

scary thing is that I’m sure you will.”

We sat against a wall with a window behind us. The girl brought us each smooth, glazed earthenware bowls with ribbed insides, perfect for grating fresh sesame seeds, and thick, blunt, knobby sticks for stirring. We set to work grinding the piles of black and white seeds into a tantalizingly fragrant powder.

“Tonkatsu is my favorite food in Japan,” I announced, inhaling from my bowl. “Who would’ve thought to grind sesame seeds?”

“You say that about every food.” Kyoko looked grumpy and pounded her seeds.

“True. But tonkatsu really is.”

We ordered—tonkatsu (breaded, fried pork) for me and chicken katsu (the same thing with chicken) for Kyoko since she always watched her weight. I could hardly wait until the two trays came, steaming, loaded with little bowls and plates. There sat our hot katsu, golden brown and perfect, surrounded by a mound of pale green shredded cabbage, a dish of hot white rice, and a bowl of tasty, salty brown
miso
soup. A glorious Japanese feast.

We broke open our chopsticks, said the traditional, “
Itadakimasu!”
with palms pressed together to give thanks, and dug in.

Heaven, covered with a crispy coating and out-of-this-world sauce. A smudge of hot mustard made me murmur my delight out loud.

I’d eaten half my plate when Kyoko squinted at me, nose ring shining. “Don’t you miss your family?” she blurted.

I poured more thick, sweet brown sauce into my ground sesame seeds and mixed it with my chopsticks then drizzled it over my pork. “Me?”

“No, the waitress. Yes, you.”

I looked up in surprise, stirring absently with my chopsticks. “Well, to be honest, I don’t have much of a family. My parentsare divorced, and I never, ever hear from my dad. He used to send checks at Christmas, but a few years ago he just sort of stopped. And so did I.”

“Bummer.”

I shrugged. “It’s not like I miss him anyway. He worked ninety percent of the time, was angry the other ten, and left for good when I turned seven.”

“Remarried?”

“Yeah. To some woman named Tanzania who’s young enough to be my older sister. She’s a belly dancer or something. I think she has a kid. No, two.”

Kyoko’s dark eyes beamed back unexpected sympathy and ever-present cynicism, as if that’s how everything turned out. “I’m sorry. Where does he live?”

“Tanzania,” I snipped, and Kyoko choked on her wisp of cabbage between two chopsticks. Glared at me.

“He lived in Canada for a while, but Tanzania wanted a warmer climate, so they moved to Mexico City. His retirement money goes pretty far there.”

“What a globe-trotting family. And your mom?”

I grimaced. “I don’t even know, to tell the truth. She’s just so weird. After Dad left she just sort of lost it. Nervous breakdown or something. She would mutter to herself and send me to school with an onion in my lunch box.”

“An onion?” Kyoko put down her chopsticks and sipped her hot green tea.

“Yeah. Unpeeled. Just sitting there.” I chuckled. “It’s kind of funny now, but at the time I was hungry. And mad. I learned how to eat out of school vending machines, but then they took away the vending machines because of nutritional debates, and I couldn’t find anything else to eat. Until they caved in to big money and started putting franchises like Burger King and Pizza Hut in the bigger schools, and I could eat to my heart’s content.”

“Obviously.” She scowled at my nearly empty plate. She stillhad half her food left. I cautiously hovered my chopsticks near a crisp, succulent piece of chicken.

“May I?”

“Go ahead.” She shoved her plate in my direction and looked sullen. “I don’t know how you stay thin when you eat like you do.”

“I run?” I offered hesitantly, taking a bite.

“Please.” Kyoko snarled. “You run, what, around the block?”

“Um … yeah. But that counts, right?”

“I could do marathons all night long, and I’d still look like this.”

“Like what? You look great. Stop it.”

She really did. I don’t know why Kyoko thought she should look skeletal—like so many hollow-cheeked Japanese fashion models.

“Who asked you?” She sounded mad again, but I knew her weight bothered her like always.

Genetics played favorites like a spiteful grandmother—blatantly and unjustly arbitrary. All running aside, I could eat and never gain a thing, whereas Kyoko could have a little dish of rice and put on pounds. Or kilos, since we lived in Japan.

Since she was twenty-six, she loved to remind me how the weight would pile on once I hit thirty—and I could kiss my french-fry addiction good-bye. Well, at least I had six more years to go.

“I dispense my opinions for free. You’re one of the lucky few, Kyoko. You really should be more grateful.” I took a long sip of green tea and another piece of her chicken.

She drummed her nails in irritation. “So, do you ever see your mom?”

I made a face. “No. Why should I? She’s just … in her own world. She joined cults all the time. Especially the one about aliens.” I thought hard. “Something about beaming us all up to our celestial home. Or is that
Star Trek
?
“

“Raelians. I’ve heard of them. There’s a bunch of them in San Fran.”

“There’s a bunch of everything in San Fran. But my mom just … doesn’t fit in my life anymore. She swears she’s quit cults and all that, but who knows what she’s into now?”

I rubbed my forehead in annoyance. “The past year or so she’s been bugging to talk to me again, sending me letters and stuff, inviting me to visit, and … I don’t want to. What’s done is done. I’ve moved on.”

“Where does she live?”

Color crept into my face. “I’m not exactly sure.” I picked up some rice with my chopsticks. “She moved a couple of times, and I sort of lost track. Atlanta or something.”

“Ah, the South!”

“Yeah. Of all places.”

“Don’t they still believe the Civil War is going on?” Kyoko smirked.

“Apparently.” I leaned closer. “I knew this guy from Alabama once. They said he married his cousin. Don’t they have laws against that?”

“Not in some states.” Kyoko, the legal expert on inbreeding.

“Let me guess…. West Virginia?”

“Wrong.”

“Really?” I looked up in midbite. “Where?”

She winked. “California.”

I laughed, hands circling my green-tea mug. Kyoko wasn’t kidding about her San Fran freedom. Truth be told, we actually weren’t that chummy at work, where Kyoko could be ice cold and somewhat competitive. But in the soft drone of voices and laughter around us, the amber glow, everything seemed to soften.

“You’d like the food in the South though. I hear everything’s deep fried.” Kyoko’s eyes peered at me over the rim of her shiny lacquer teacup.

“Really?” My ears perked up.

“Yeah. Like pork rinds and deep-fried moon pies.”

“My mom sent me some stuff once here in Tokyo. A bright pink coconut thing, which probably soaked up more red dye than those Chinese ‘congrats-on-your-new-baby’ eggs.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. But the weirdest thing she sent was a mini pecan pie, enshrined in plastic. I still have it at home.”

“Did you eat them?” Her eyebrows contorted in horror.

“No way. I kept the pecan pie as a memento.”

“What do you mean you ‘kept it’?”

“Well, the pink thing started to … well, not look so good anymore, so I threw it away. But the pecan pie never changed. It just sits there staring at me. I think it’s made with formaldehyde or something.” I shuddered.

She stared at me, mystified. “Funny. So that’s your mom’s legacy.”

“Yeah. My half sister told me Mom got a good job doing something … forgot what … and makes a good living, so I didn’t worry about her anymore.”

Kyoko surprisingly said nothing. She twirled her teacup. “So you have a half sister?”

“From my dad’s previous marriage. No relation to my mom, but Ashley lived with us until Dad left.”

“Do you keep in touch with her?”

“Sort of. We e-mail once in a while. She’s pregnant and lives in Chicago.” Obviously Dad, not Mom, named Ashley. “And she’s a pain. Now she just sends a Christmas card every few years.”

“Oh. Well, I guess that sort of makes you free to live where you want, doesn’t it?”

“Exactly.” I smiled. A twinge of sadness flickered across my thoughts, but I grabbed my reporter’s pad instead and made several ticks. “Hair dye companies must do a roaring trade in Japan. Great investment potential, don’t you think?”

“As if you have money to invest.” Kyoko sniffed. “Gucci girl.”

“What? I only have one thing from Gucci.”

“Really.” She didn’t believe me.

“No.” I smiled and asked for the check.

Quiet settled over the streets when we stopped under the streetlight next to my apartment complex. Which wasn’t as nice as Kyoko’s a few blocks away, since she’d been at AP longer.

“So you really want to stay here forever?” asked Kyoko, digging in her purse for a lighter.

“Yes.”

“Does Carlos?”

I played with my silver watch strap. “Not exactly. But maybe I could convince him.”

She harrumphed. “You’ll have enough trouble convincing him to leave the Girl Down Under alone.”

I sniffed and said nothing. Kyoko lit up a cigarette, which I hated. Hands down her worst habit. “Why’d you have to do that?” I whined. “It’s bad for you. And for me.” I faked a cough.

“No worse than your fried whatever. Besides, it helps me keep the weight off.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do. That’s life.” She made an exaggerated point of blowing smoke on me. “Gotta step on some toes sometimes.”

In an instant I thought of the PM’s wife article and knew exactly what she meant. “Well, you’re right about one thing, Kyoko. Whatever it takes.” I gave her a mock salute. “Well spoken. You up for a run?”

“Tonight? Are you nuts?”

“Sure. Just over to the—”

“No.” Kyoko tapped the ashes off her cigarette and scowled. “Any other silly questions?”

I hid a smile. “Okay then. I’ll go alone. I’m definitely up for

Akiba tomorrow though. I’ll call ya.”

She saluted me back and disappeared down the street until I could only catch a little orange glimmer of her cigarette. Then my cell phone buzzed. D
OES
T
HE
P S
TAND
F
OR
P
ERSEPHONE?
she texted.

The split-second subject change again. N
ICE
T
RY
, I texted back.

M
ARRY
A J
APANESE
G
UY
. T
HEN
You C
AN
S
TAY
H
ERE
.

N
OT
P
OSSIBLE
. I
‘M
I
N
L
OVE
W
ITH
C
ARLOS
. A
DIOS
.

D
OES
H
E
L
OVE
You?

I stared at her brazen letters in disbelief. The cursor winked. O
F
C
OURSE
H
E
D
OES!

I snapped my phone closed in annoyance and headed up to my apartment on the eleventh floor. Technically it was the tenth floor, since Japanese are superstitious about the number four, which sounded ominously like the word for death—
shi
. So occasionally Japanese airlines have no row number four, and some high-rise complexes omit the fourth floor, too, like mine.

Funny, the first three letters of my name started with the letters “shi.” Why had I never thought of that until now?

I hoped it wasn’t an omen.

The door to my little flat opened quietly, and I dropped my keys and purse on the long wooden table. Inside, rows of tiny “cubicles” held my shoes so I didn’t dirty the inside of my apartment, per Japanese custom. It reminded me of the “capsule hotels” where Japanese businessmen sleep in a rented tube to save money. I hoped my shoes slept comfortably.

I slipped them off in the
genkan
, a sort of uncarpeted entranceway, and stepped into padded Japanese slippers, feeling the weight of my too-chic heels melt.