Chapter 6 – Reunion

SOMETHING WAS rattling around in his head.  It clattered and crashed.  He tried to hide, to slip deeper into sleep but the noise had sharp painful edges.  A bright light jabbed and poked, trying to crawl under his eyelids.
    The noise spoke.  “Get up, get up.”
    Sam panicked, his body flooded with danger signals.  Run, run—Renamo guerrillas are attacking the convoy.  His brain, befuddled and still in Mozambique, yelled at his feet to move.  He groaned and opened his eyes.
    A little guerrilla with auburn pigtails banged a couple of frying pans together.  She reached down and tried to pull the covers off the bed.
    Sam was sleeping naked.  Just in time, he yanked the covers up to his chin and held on.  “What time is it?” he croaked.
    “Four-thirty,” May said.  She was wearing an immaculate white apron over her school uniform.  Her face scrubbed pink, her pretty brown eyes laughed behind a pair of gold-framed glasses.  “We have to open at five,” she announced, and when Sam didn’t move fast enough, banged the pans together again.
    “Stop that,” Sam moaned.  “Jesus, May, it’s still dark out.  Go back to bed and leave me alone.  I gotta get some more sleep.”
    “That’s impossible.  You have to help me with the coffee shop.  We’re going to lose all our customers if we don’t reopen soon.”  She held out the pans in a threatening gesture.
    His mother’s business hadn't even crossed his mind.  He was a writer, not a shopkeeper; even basic entrepreneurial skills were a mystery.  Wasn’t a certain rapport with the customers an obvious requirement?  Would May let him off the hook if she realized that pleasant banter with a steady stream of Japanese was impossible?
    Not likely.  Two years ago in London he’d hurt her feelings trying to explain why he couldn’t return to Tokyo.  Too perceptive by far, she’d shouted that couldn’t was different from wouldn’t and called his reasons excuses.  He was a chicken, she’d said, and for the rest of the month had refused to speak anything but Japanese.
    Sam looked at the darkened windows and shook his head.  For the time being May was going to get whatever she wanted—they could renegotiate later.
    “OK, OK.  Just don’t make any more noise, please.”  He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and grumbled, “You’re a pretty cruel kid.  Couldn’t you have found some other way to wake me up?”
    May shrugged.  “I saw it on TV, they do it in the army.  It looked like fun.”
    Sam sniffed the air.  “I smell coffee.”
    May set down her pans and picked a mug off the bureau.  “I brought you some.”  She grinned and held it out.  “Do you want it now?”
    There was nothing in the world he wanted more.  He begged.
    She backed away from the bed.  “You can’t have it unless you get up.”
    “Please, May.  I can’t get up until you leave the room.  I’m not wearing pajamas.  Just set it on the night stand like the good girl I know you are.”
    Unimpressed with his flattery, May hesitated, wondering if she could get away with anything else.  No, she decided, he looks too pitiful.
    Sam took the mug from her hands and cradled it gently.  “If you’ll get out of here I’ll be down in a minute.”
    Retreating to the bedroom door, May couldn’t resist a parting shot.  “I’m going to tell Helen you sleep naked.  I bet she’ll be interested.  What’d’ ya think?”
    May left and Sam dug around in his suitcase for a pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt.  After last night he doubted Helen would be particularly interested in his sleeping attire or anything else he might say or do.
    Nothing much had gone wrong after his unfortunate entrance but very little had gone right, either.  May had eventually stopped her teasing and Sam had gained a bit of composure.
    He’d done his best to make conversation but Helen had remained remarkably reticent.  She did nothing to encourage or discourage, and if there had been a depth of emotion she could not hide, it had always been reserved for May.  Temperate with words and gestures, Helen did not flirt.
    Matching pajamas and ridiculous slippers, a passion for pizza and Monopoly—these were only cute addendums to what was clearly a much deeper relationship.  When Helen had turned her eyes on May, Sam had felt at best like a piece of furniture, at worst like a voyeur.
    Never had he felt at such a loss with a woman.  Any question, even the most innocent, had seemed invasive.  And though she’d answered agreeably enough, before she’d finished he’d always regretted having asked.  What should have been a simple introduction, a harmless exploration, suddenly became disproportionately important.
    He should have known better—just a glance at Helen was enough of a warning.  She looked, in certain critical aspects, like all the women he’d ever tried to love.  Hollow-cheeked women with thin wrists and insistent eyes—he’d tripped over their intensity every time.
    It had been left to May to keep the conversation going.  Helen was an editor at one of Tokyo’s four English-language newspapers.  But what Sam had always considered a profession, she’d dismissed as a job any monkey could do.
    Still, it could have been a point of common interest, a conduit to greater intimacy.  But Helen had shied away from the subject and he’d let the matter drop.
    Soon after, he’d gathered up May and left.  To Sam, the departure had seemed nearly as strange as the entrance.  He’d said good night and shook Helen Lang’s hand.  It was a normal gesture that had turned awkward with May chirping away at his side.  Helen had remained silent and unflappable.  Finally, she’d grinned and pinched May on the nose.  The girl had quit her blithering and Helen had looked Sam straight in the eye.  She’d offered an indecipherable smile, and, like a veil brushed aside in uncertain light, a suggestion.  His feet had floated at least an inch off the ground as she’d worked him over with her eyes.
    Returning to their apartment, May had squawked that Sam was holding her hand too tight, had protested that his comments on the moon were idiotic.
    He found May waiting outside the coffee shop.  The street was gray and cold.  He heard a low warbling, a dispirited mournful voice singing the last enka song of the night.  Amplified by a karaoke machine, distorted by whiskey, it drifted down the block.  An older man in a suit and tie was methodically kicking in the side of a parked car.  He cocked his head, listened for a moment and then staggered off toward the subway entrance.
    May was shivering.  She looked embarrassed and vulnerable as she handed Sam the key.  He put his arm around her shoulders and didn’t ask why she’d waited to enter.
    “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, putting the key in lock.  He doubted anyone had been inside since the police had finished their fruitless investigation of his mother’s death.
    May nodded and covered his hand with hers, helping him turn the key.  “I want things to be the way they were.”
    Sam dropped to one knee, bringing her eyes within reach.  “I don’t think things can ever be just the same, honey.  But if we stick together maybe they can be almost as good.”
    “That’s right,” May said, opening the door.  “We have to keep going.”
    He was amazed at her bravery and ashamed of himself—a little banter with the customers, Japanese or not, wasn’t going to kill him.
    May flipped on the lights and showed him around while the heaters kicked in.  She was proud and possessive and her smiles increased in number and depth until she reached the flashy jukebox.
    “Isn’t it just great,” she said, punching in a series of numbers.  “I picked out all the music.”
    She had unusual taste for a thirteen year old.  Gershwin and Cole Porter.  Eric Clapton, Neil Young and a slew of few Japanese bands he didn’t recognize.
    The Japanese bands made sense, of course.  And the composers—she’d picked them up from her mother.  But the aging rockers were a puzzle.
    “What’s with Neil Young and Clapton?  Aren’t those guys a bit dated for you?”
    May shook her head, “Get real.  They’re terrific guitar players.  You do remember that I play, don’t you?”
    She’d been studying seriously since she was tiny.  That he’d never heard her play was just one more failing he’d have to remedy very soon.
    “Of course not, I didn’t forget.  I just didn’t make the connection, that’s all.  When are you going to play for me?”
    “I’ll think about it,” May sniffed, not entirely mollified.  “Maybe if you do a good job here today I’ll play something tonight.”
    Sam scanned the rest of the Wurlitzer’s menu.  “One last question.  What’s with all the R.E.M.?  It looks like you’ve got everything they’ve ever done.”
    May winked.  “Helen likes them a lot.”  She walked behind the counter and started filling napkin holders.  “Guess what?”
    “What?”
    “Helen plays the guitar, too.  She’s even better than me.  Maybe I’ll ask her to join us.”

    The first customer of the day walked in the door and May, in the tradition of every Japanese business everywhere, screeched out a welcome.  Sam jumped, groaned and looked around for an apron.
    Half the booths and most of the counter stools were occupied by a quarter to six.  May knew exactly what she was doing and ordered him around shamelessly.  He dropped only one cup of coffee and gained confidence rapidly.
    The earliest customers were mostly mama-sans on their way home.  The owners of neighborhood bars, they were attractive women in their 30s and early 40s.  They wore racy dresses and had bold tarty eyes.  Curious about “Sam-san” and not afraid to show it, they sat with their skirts hiked up and peppered him with questions.
    With May bustling around, he tried to keep his eyes above the waist as he fielded their questions and delivered coffee and toast.  It wasn’t easy.  The mama-sans were apparently too tired to give much thought to the positioning of the their legs.  Oddly this lack of caution seemed even more pronounced when Sam happened to look in their direction.  After his debacle with Helen, he enjoyed the attention very much.
    May handed a traditional Japanese breakfast across the counter—cheese toast—and grinned.  “The ladies seem to be livelier than usual this morning.  I wonder why?”
    “You got me,” Sam said, congratulating himself for maintaining at least a facade of indifference.  May couldn’t possibly know to what pleasant sleazy depths he could sink if given half the chance.
    “A couple of them work right upstairs,” she added.  “They’re our tenants and you’ve got to collect rent from them every month.  They’re REALLY friendly.”
    Sam looked in the mirror behind the bar, horrified that his thoughts might be tattooed on his forehead.
    “So what?”
    May giggled, “Oh, it’s nothing.  I just thought I’d mention it.”
    The next wave of customers hit a little before seven, just as the bar owners packed their oversized bags, replenished their lipstick and left.  This next group, early rising old people, favored a more complicated traditional Japanese breakfast—a hardboiled egg, toast and a small pile of shredded cabbage with thousand island dressing.
    Sam was kept hopping.  He balanced plates on slippery trays and avoided being drawn into arguments between friends who’d known each other for sixty years.
    All expressed condolences over his mother’s death and welcomed him home.  They spoke with a level of politeness unheard of in anyone under the age of seventy and with unfeigned sincerity and concern.
    At exactly seven-fifteen, the very oldest, Kimiko Nakamura, stuck her head in the door, squinched up her eyes to make certain of what she saw and then disappeared.  She returned minutes later carrying a parcel wrapped in white paper imprinted with purple cranes.  Deep into her nineties and barely able to walk, Sam helped her across the floor.
    “Not there,” May said, shaking her head.  “Nakamura-san always sits here.”  She pointed to an end seat at the counter.  “It’s hard for her to get in and out of the booths.”
    It was also hard for her to talk and Sam strained to make sense of her words.  But everybody in the coffee shop could understand her intentions when she held out the parcel with shaky hands.
    May opened the gift slowly, careful not to tear the rice-paper wrapping.  She folded it precisely and complemented the old lady on how pretty it was.  Inside was a sweater and May had tears in her eyes as she tried it on.  The sweater was knitted in powder blue.  English words and phrases—Cute, Boyfriend and Happy Life—served as crimson decoration.
    May either didn’t notice or didn’t care that Kimiko Nakamura’s spelling was less than perfect.  She thanked her graciously and when the old woman began to cry, dried her tears with the cuff of her new sweater.
    May looked up at Sam and smiled.  “Sorry, we Japanese cry a lot.”
    He nodded, thinking he might join them if he opened his mouth.
    The oldsters had shuffled off by a quarter to eight and the coffee shop was, at least for the moment, empty.  Sam slumped in a booth to rest.  His feet already hurt and he wanted to crawl back into bed.
    May pulled off her apron and hung it on a hook.  “Hey, big brother, it’s time for me to go.”  She grabbed her book bag from under the counter.
    “You’re not really going to leave me here all alone, are you?” he asked.
    She slid into the booth with a gleam in her eye.  “I cut school yesterday but if you need me I could stay home again.”
    Sam shook his head.  “Absolutely not.”  If May had even the slightest trouble at school it would give her aunt and uncle an opening they could exploit in a custody battle.  He was certain he hadn’t seen the last of them.
    “No, I’ll be fine.  It hasn’t been so tough, I can handle it.”
    May looked at her brother doubtfully.  He hasn’t seen the lunch crowd, yet.  He doesn’t know what tough is.
    “How are you doing at school?” Sam asked.  “Any problems?”
    “I had a few hassles at first but it’s OK now.  They were going to throw me out because they said I dyed my hair.”  She waved an auburn pigtail at Sam.
    “What happened?”
    “Mom took care of it.  She told them that because I was a little bit gaijin it was my natural hair color.”
    Sam remembered his own school days.  The teachers had been authoritarian and inflexible.  A couple had actually aided and abetted the school bullies in their harassment of anyone even slightly different.  Unlike May, Sam was more than a little bit gaijin and he’d been made to pay for it.  The intolerance had driven him right out of the country.
    May smiled.  “Wait.  I haven’t told you the best part.  After Mom talked to the principal they had an emergency teachers’ meeting and decided I should dye my hair black so I would look like all the other girls.  Isn’t that weird?”
    Weird but not surprising.  Sam reached across the table and touched May’s hair.  It was beautiful, he could easily imagine his mother’s reaction.  “I bet Mom wasn’t too happy with the idea.”
    May laughed.  “You could say that.  She had a fit.  It was great, she was really pissed off.”
    Sam frowned.  “Pissed off?”
    “Oh, come on.  Everybody says stuff like that.  Anyway, she threatened to sic Matsushita-san on them and they backed down.”
    Rie Matsushita had been Elena’s friend and lawyer.  The mention of her name reminded him that he needed to arrange a meeting.  The Kochi clan’s aspirations could be a nuisance, maybe there was something he could do to head off any problems they might cause.
    “Are the teachers treating you all right now?”
    “Pretty much, at least no different from the rest of the kids.  My home room teacher got down on her hands and knees and measured all the girls’ skirts last week.  Mine was an eighth of an inch too short but lots of other kids were worse.”
    May glanced at her watch.  “Hey, I gotta run.  Kiyomi’s waiting for me.  They slam the gate at exactly eight-thirty.  If we’re even one second late we’re in big trouble.”  She jumped up and ran to the door.
    “Study hard,” Sam yelled.
    May ran back, kissed him on the cheek and held out her hand.
    “Lunch money?” he asked.
    “Forget it.  Lunch money’s for kids.  I want my salary.  You don’t think I do this for free, do you?  Mom always paid me.”
    “How much?”
    “A thousand yen an hour.”
    “That’s pretty steep.  There’s a recession on, you know.”
    “I’ve got lots of expenses.  I want to buy a Game Boy.  Mom said I have to buy it myself ‘cause it’ll rot my brain.”
    Sam had one in his suitcase and wondered if he should admit it.  “What games do you play?”
    “Mostly Tetris.”
    The lure of competition was too great.  He considered himself an expert.  “I bet I can beat you,” he challenged, handing over May’s wages.
    She pocketed the money and raced for the door, tossing a threat over her shoulder.  “Wait ‘till I get home.  I’ll slaughter you.”
    He picked up the newspaper and began to read about the latest scandal.  Just as he was reaching the part where the construction minister blamed everything on a long-time aide, the bell over the door announced the arrival of another customer.
    “Welcome!” Sam shouted, grinning to himself.  This coffee shop business was easy, anybody could do it.  He’d show May that he was as adaptable as the next guy.  How could anything possibly go wrong?