Chapter 11 – To Urayasu

THE SMOOTH brick path along the river ended abruptly. Kiki and Jiji slowed and cautiously entered a shadowy underpass. About twenty meters wide and 100 meters deep, it was littered with contraband—squished glue tubes, sodden porno comics and empty wine bottles. A stained back seat, wrenched from a car leaned against the curved cement. Graffiti, sprayed in red and black, climbed to the ceiling.
    Kiki got off her bike and pushed it through the tunnel. There was junk on the broken concrete roadway that could give her a nasty spill. Jiji darted back and forth, sniffing. At night the tunnel was a hangout local teens. Kiki thought they were bad. A normal, judgmental twelve-year-old, she was especially critical of the girls, some of whom were no older than she. That her father was well off and theirs’ were poor; that she was on track for a good life while their train would stop at another station—she was too young to fully understand.
    They silently picked their way through the tunnel aiming for the sunlight. Near the end, Jiji barked, a real dog, word-free bark. Against the wall Kiki saw something move in the gloom. “Jiji stop!” she commanded.
    Old winos sometimes occupied the tunnel in the daytime. They weren’t dangerous but she still didn’t want Jiji near one. They smelled. If Jiji were approached roughly, she would bite. But today, it wasn’t a drunk but a fisherman taking a break on a crate. He had his catch in a cooler and a beer in his hand. Kiki smiled as he held his hand out slowly to let Jiji get a sniff. That was the way to do it. Go slow. He must have his own dog, she thought. “Have any luck?” she asked, as pushed her bike past.
    He nodded and reached down to pet Jiji. “Small. They don’t come much smaller than this one.”
    “She’s a runt,” Kiki said.
    The fisherman smiled, silently acknowledging something that was quite obvious. Jiji barked, “That word!”
    Jiji was still whining when they reached the end of the tunnel and Kiki got back on her bike.
    “You promised not to call me that anymore. You promised.”
    Kiki pedaled slowly along a dirt path that snaked through grass along the river. She turned her head and shouted, “Watch out for glass.”
    Jiji, still peeved, stood her ground, deciding if she would follow or refuse to budge. Nonviolent disobedience was her only alternative when dealing with Kiki. Biting was out of the question. But the sun was too high, too hot, and the day too gorgeous. Her legs didn’t care about the perceived insult, they took off after the bike. She ran down the path, occasionally glancing down to search the dirt for sharp objects that might cut her paws.
     Jiji took a deep breath. She smelled warm dirt, grass turned brown, bugs, mouse droppings and the breeze off the river. Never a dog to dwell on the future, she ordered herself to remember this moment. She was so happy to be alive. She heard Kiki singing to herself as she pedaled; she was so happy to be loved.
    Kiki was thinking much the same thing. It truly was a marvelous day. Now in her first year of junior high, she was still a bit gawky and taller than the other girls. She was also smarter and prettier than most and gaining on the leaders. This was not a conclusion she would have ever reached herself, but her father’s and Jiji’s continual encouragement were working wonders.
    Secretly, her dad gave great credit to the little dog. Kiki smiled all the time now and her confidence was growing daily. That she paid more attention to Jiji than her girlfriends didn’t bother him. In the pre-Jiji days she hadn’t had any friends at all. Yes, it was mildly disturbing that she reserved her most perceptive statements for the dog. Yes, the long pauses, apparently to allow for responses, were disconcerting, as was the elevated grammar level. Kiki used less slang with the dog than she did with her friends. He didn’t care. Life was better for everyone. His mother was as delighted with Kiki’s pet as she was with her granddaughter. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought of his long-gone wife.
    Half an hour later the dirt path to Urayasu ended and another neat, well-maintained river walk began. Kiki had to dismount and weave her bike through yellow stanchions imbedded in the brick to keep out motorcycles. Jiji waited a few meters ahead, impatient to get moving.
    “Not so fast, buster, Kiki said,” pulling a water bottle from her backpack. “We can’t have you getting dehydrated. You know what dehydrated means, right?”
    Jiji was a little thirsty, but she was irritated by the sudden pop quiz. “Yes,” she answered, and rolled her eyes. “I learned that word months ago. If I don’t drink enough water I die.”
    “Close enough.” Kiki poured a little of the liquid in the bottle’s cap and Jiji lapped it up. As she screwed the cap back on, Jiji whined, “You’d better drink some, too. We wouldn’t want you to get dehydrated, would we?’’
    Kiki pointed to a bench facing the calm, blue-green river. “Why don’t we take a break? You can tell me about your brothers and sisters again.”
    Jiji ran to the bench and leaped–it was so high and she was so short–it was almost a miracle of levitation when she landed safely. “I don’t wanna talk about them. I wanna talk about fathers. You have one. Where’s mine?”