The Sun Gods (6 page)

She started to return to her work at the range, but Tom stopped her. “Somebody has to fly that thing for Billy,” he said, smiling. “I'll serve myself. Thank you for making breakfast.”

She nodded and backed away.

From the kitchen table, he watched as Billy scrambled after the “tombo” each time it clicked against the hard ceiling and ricocheted off the enameled walls. Sitting on the floor with the boy, Mitsuko seemed to have endless patience. Billy's delight was infectious, and Tom found himself smiling and he listened to Mitsuko teaching Billy the full name of the toy.

“Ta-ke-tom-bo.”

“Ka-ke-kom-bo.”

“Ta-ke. Take is bamboo. Say ‘Ta-ke.'”

“Ta-ke.”

“Tom-bo. Tombo is dragonfly. ‘Tom-bo.'”

“Tom-bo.”

“Taketombo.”

“Kakekombo.”

Mitsuko laughed aloud and held the boy close, chattering to herself in Japanese. Tom recognized “
kawaii
,” the word they always said when they were excited about children.

“Fly tombo!” Billy started up again, and another round of flights followed. For Tom, the novelty had worn off, and he was becoming annoyed. Mitsuko, too, seemed to be wishing for some relief. She tried suggesting that Billy find another toy or a book, but the child insisted that Mitsuko fly the taketombo for him. Tom wondered why she didn't just take it away from him, as he himself would have done. He concluded that she must be waiting for Billy's father to back her up with a show of authority.

“Bil-ly,” Tom growled, letting the word rumble in his chest. “Enough, now.”

Billy ignored him.

“Billy,” he barked. “I said stop.”

What was wrong with Mitsuko? She should have chimed in and told the boy, “Listen to your father,” or “Don't make your Daddy mad.” But she just kept sitting there with him, letting him get away with murder.

This had gone on long enough. Tom started to push his chair back, expecting the noise to alert Billy to his last chance to avoid the strap. Instead, it was Mitsuko who looked at Tom. She said nothing, but she wore a grim expression and slowly shook her head from side to side.

“The boy must be disciplined,” he said to her, still in his chair.

Again she shook her head. Then, turning back to Billy, she put a hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye, her face suffused with a deep, quiet sadness.

Billy dropped the toy and put his arms around her neck.

Mitsuko picked him up and glided from the room.

7

AT CHURCH TOM FOUND
it difficult to concentrate on his work. His mind kept wandering back to his little apartment on Summit Avenue.
It's two o'clock, Billy's nap time. Mitsuko must be singing him that Japanese lullaby and patting him on the stomach in rhythm as he falls asleep.

He tried to recall the melody she always sang to the boy, but its twists and turns were too strange; no matter how many times he heard it, he could never anticipate the next note. All he could bring back was the sound of Mitsuko's voice, soft and slightly breathy, caressing.

Going home at the end of the day was more and more an event to be anticipated and savored. Not even the long days of early summer could keep him in the office much past four o'clock.

Mitsuko and Billy would greet him at the door. Despite his protests, she would help him out of his coat and hang it up for him. “It is the Japanese way,” she explained. But when she went so far as to bring his slippers to the threshold, he found it embarrassing. For one thing, it made him uneasy to think of her rummaging around in his bedroom.

“Really, Mitsuko,” he said, “I asked for your help with Billy. I don't expect you to do so much for me. And please don't tell me ‘It is the Japanese way.'”

Her only response was that same sad look she gave Billy to make him behave. No matter how many times he asked her to stop the special service, she was there with the slippers and the sad look.

Finally one day, with more of an edge to his voice than he had intended, he said, “From now on, I expect to find my slippers in my room.”

The next day, when he opened the front door, he found a brand new pair of slippers waiting for him. Her determination was incredible! He tried to ignore the things and put on a stern face, but in the end he couldn't help laughing.

“All right, all right,” he said at last. “If you insist on acting like a servant, there's nothing I can do.”

She did not reply, but from that day on it became his habit to change into his new slippers as soon as he entered the apartment.

“You really should talk to that sister of yours,” he said, smiling, to Mrs. Nomura at the next Sunday school committee meeting. “She has too much of the old Japanese servility. We have to work on making her more American.”

“It is not servility, Pastor Tom,” replied Mrs. Nomura.

“No? What is it, then?”

“Simple cleanliness.”

He looked at her.

“In Japan, we make a firm distinction between the inside and the outside. A Japanese person would no more wear shoes in the house than an American would walk on the dinner table. I am always amazed to see Americans with their feet up on furniture—even beds—wearing the same shoes they walked in where people spit and dogs and horses foul the streets. I have lived here for many years, and still I cannot get used to it.”

Tom blushed and found himself at a loss for an answer.

That Thursday, a grim-faced Mrs. Nomura met Tom when he walked into the apartment.

“It's Billy,” she said before he could speak. “He has a high fever.”

“Did you call the doctor?” he asked, hanging his coat in the front closet and changing into his slippers.

“Yes,” she said. “Dr. Wallace is with him now.”

Despite the warm June weather, he found Billy lying under blankets. The window was closed, and the room smelled of sweat and fever. There was some kind of contraption on Billy's forehead. Dr. Wallace, a grey-haired man with ruddy complexion, was kneeling by the crib. He closed his case and stood to go.

“Thank you for coming, Doctor,” Tom said, shaking the doctor's hand. “How is he?”

“He has a bad summer cold with a high fever,” said the doctor. “He will be okay, but you better watch him, Reverend. Give him plenty of fluids, aspirin. Try to keep the fever down. He should be all right if we can control the fever. That ice bag's just the ticket. Couldn't have done better myself.”

Tom glanced at the device on Billy's forehead.

“Your housekeeper rigged it up with a piece of oil cloth. Neat idea hanging it from a stick like that. Takes the weight off. Anyhow, let me know if the fever doesn't break by tomorrow or if it goes any higher. It's up around a hundred and four now. Keep an eye on him.”

“Of course.”

Tom showed him to the door.

“Thanks again,” he called as Doctor Wallace headed down the stairs.

“Excuse me, Pastor Tom,” Mrs. Nomura said, squeezing past him at the doorway. “I have to go cook dinner. My husband will be home soon.”

“Yes, by all means. Thank you so much, Mrs. Nomura.”

“Let us know how Billy is doing,” she said as she hurried downstairs. He closed the door and started for the bedroom but decided to stop by the kitchen for a drink of water. Perhaps Mitsuko could use one, too. While the water was running, he noticed that the kitchen table's scratched white porcelain surface was exposed. So that was what Mitsuko had used to make Billy's ice bag. Very resourceful, he thought.

He walked to Billy's room holding two glasses of water. Mitsuko was sitting on the floor by the bed. She looked up when he entered. There was a film of sweat on her forehead and upper lip, and a few strands had come loose from the tight bun in which her hair was always tied. He held out a glass to her, and she accepted it, but she waited for him to drink before bringing it to her lips.

“I am sorry,” she said after the first sip. “I will pay for the table cloth.”

She recited the words with touching simplicity, as if she had been rehearsing them for some time.

He could not help smiling.

“Never mind,” he said. “It was for a good cause.”

“Cause?” she asked.

“It was for Billy,” he explained. “Besides, it was old.”

“But it was still good. I put it in the drawer by the sink.”

“Put what in the drawer?”

“The rest of the oil cloth. Not to waste it.”

She was so serious about a scrap of oil cloth, he wanted to give her a hug. She must have been frantic, and yet she had had the presence of mind to cut the table cloth and put the rest away. Instead of a hug, he patted her hand that was resting next to Billy. She did not move it, and gave him a glance before smiling a little.

Several times that evening, Tom suggested to Mitsuko that she let him watch Billy in her place, but she relented only long enough to cook a simple dinner for the two of them and to take a quick bath. She bathed every evening, never in the morning. As warm as the weather had become in recent weeks, she was apparently still taking scalding hot baths, judging from the steam that filled the apartment. The gas and water bills were up, too.

He went to bed at ten, setting the alarm for midnight. When it woke him, he put on a robe and walked into Billy's room to spell her, but she refused to budge.

“His fever is still very high,” she explained.

“That may be so, but I can sit with him as well as you. Get some rest for tomorrow.”

“I will stay here,” she said. The day's sunny warmth had dissipated, but she wore only the thin cotton kimono she always wore after the bath.

“At least put on a sweater or something. You'll catch cold yourself. You're not used to Seattle summer weather. It gets chilly at night. That kimono is not enough.”

“This is not kimono. It is
yukata
.”

“Whatever you call it, it's thin.”

“I am fine, thank you.”

There was no point in arguing. He would get his rest tonight and stay home from the church tomorrow, when she could sleep. He went back to his room, though he doubted that he could fall asleep again. Still dressed in the robe, he lay atop the bed, reading.

At three a.m., he woke with his magazine on his chest. The night was silent, but after he had lain awake for some time, he heard a distant cry. It seemed to rise and fall with the wind. But there was no wind. And the sound was not coming from the distance. It was here in his own apartment.

He tiptoed to the door of his room and listened. It was Mitsuko, singing her lullaby, but her voice was barely above a whisper.

If she was singing, Billy would be awake; perhaps his fever had broken. Tom edged to the door of his son's room and peeked inside. Her back to the door, Mitsuko sat on the chair beside the crib, yukata open and dropped to the waist, holding Billy in her arms. Even in the dim light, he saw her flesh, glowing like the sun in its full glory. Tom watched the top of Billy's head moving as he sucked at Mitsuko's left breast. The boy's little moans mingled with the unearthly sound of Mitsuko's clinging, insinuating lullaby. Tom turned away and hurried back to his room.

He could still hear the song as he sat trembling on his bed.

How could this be happening?
Was
it really happening? Or was it an apparition sent by the Devil himself?

Yes. Let it be that. Let it be a vision of sin with no more substance than a nightmare.

But no, he knew that it was real, and it was evil. Un-Christian. He should rush back in there now. He should cast her out, send her back to the land of darkness.

But he was paralyzed. All he could do was listen to the sound of corruption and know that, even more than to rid his home of this abomination, what he longed to do was to see more.

The shame of it was overwhelming. He clamped his eyes shut and felt his heart pounding. He groped for the lamp on the night table and pulled the chain. A comforting blindness enveloped him. He stretched out on the bed and fought to calm his breathing. Taking deep, regular breaths, he brought at least this much of himself under control. The heart was less obedient, but before long the pounding in his ears diminished. And, finally, like a gift from God, blessed sleep came to rescue him.

A sharp sound brought Pastor Tom into the daylight.

He heard it again. A kind of slapping sound.

He sat up and looked at the empty white walls, the somber face of Jesus over the bed. After a moment's hesitation, he stood and walked quickly to Billy's room.

Another slap resounded as he turned into the doorway, and the summer morning sunlight flooding through the open curtains almost hurt his eyes. Silhouetted against the window stood Mitsuko, in a dress now. She was facing the light with head bowed and, it seemed, her hands clasped in prayer.

She heard him enter and turned with a radiant smile. “The fever has broken!” she proclaimed joyfully.

Sure enough, Billy lay there awake, slowly turning the taketombo in his fingers. As Tom approached the crib, he could see weariness in Billy's little face, but the boy's eyes were clear.

“Thank the Lord,” he muttered, trying not to look at Mitsuko. He knelt by Billy's crib and put his hand on the boy's cheek. It was cool. Billy smiled at him. Still holding the toy in his right hand, Billy stretched his left toward Mitsuko, who sat down on the other side of the crib and took his hand.

Tom could feel the warmth of her body across the narrow crib. He finally looked up at her, afraid of what he would see, but discovering in her eyes only joy, the joy of love and thanksgiving. Her gold cross hung outside the collar of her dress. He sensed that she had been touching it as she stood at the window in prayer. But what could that slapping sound have been? He bowed his head and intoned, “We offer our thanks to thee, o Lord, who hast seen fit to look down on us, His humble servants, and to shower upon us His redeeming love and grace through Jesus Christ.”

“Amen,” responded Mitsuko, her voice trembling.

When she raised her head and looked at him, so openly expressing the joy she felt at the recovery of his son, he could not find blame in his heart. “Thank you,” he said humbly, “for helping him pull through.”

She bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement, but her face told him that something was troubling her.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “What is ‘pull through?'”

Tom could not help smiling. “‘Pull through' means ‘to get better,' ‘to recover from an illness.'”