Southern Fried Sushi (22 page)

yard. Everybody’s nuts! Every single person.”

I started to hurl another insult about dumb Southerners then abruptly shut up. My mouth had run away again, leaving me in a hazy stupor of anger and grief. But nothing really mattered anymore. Things couldn’t possibly get any worse.

“Now that’s not fair,” said Adam, a hint of coldness in his voice.

“No? Well, that’s what I see. And did the KKK run all the African-Americans out of town?”

“You haven’t been here long enough to see anything!” Adam retorted, arms crossed in the darkness. “Yes, there are racist people in the South. But it’s a sin, Shiloh, that God will judge. It’s one hundred percent wrong, and those who know God know it. No one can love God and hate his brother. The Bible says so.”

“The Bible.” I rolled my eyes.

He didn’t take my bait. “And a lot of those people who go around calling themselves Christians are liars. Fakers who use the Bible to accomplish their twisted agenda. Don’t judge everybody by the sins of a few.”

“As if that makes things any better!” I faced him, gripping the porch with white knuckles. “I can’t find one redeeming quality around here. Greasy food, run-down shacks, and too many bugs!” I swatted violently at one buzzing near my head. “Ignorant people who want nothing better in life except working at dead-end jobs and mental institutions! No wonder my mom lived in Staunton. She was in her element!”

My cheeks flushed. I buried my face in shaking hands, hearing my heart pump angry blood past my ears. My breath shuddered.

Even in the moonlight, I could see Adam’s gaze chill. “That’s what you really think about everybody?”

“Yes, and a lot more.”

“Well.” He stood up and put his wallet in his pocket. “Good night then, Shiloh.”

And with that, he picked up his tools leaning against the

pillar and got in his truck and left.

I watched his truck pull out of the driveway like I’d watched my dad’s retreating back. Mute, powerless to speak or call him back. I was frozen, a stone.

The taillights disappeared. I sat on the porch for a long time, devastated at what I’d done. I didn’t mean it. I really didn’t.
What on earth got into you? Honestly! You need help!

I’d just insulted one of the only friends I had in the city, after he’d bought us all dinner and helped me move into Mom’s house. He’d trimmed my hedges and mulched my plants. Told me how often to water my roses and promised to bring more plants.

And here I sat, under the condemning gaze of Mama Bird. Even she saw what a heel I’d been.

Shiloh P. Jacobs found her roots all right. A chip off the crabby old block.

I guess some things never change.

The dew suddenly felt cold, and I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering. I was lonely and tired beyond words. I longed to call someone, but there was no one to call.

I walked back into the empty house, locking the door behind me. Threw myself on the newly made bed in the spare bedroom, not even bothering to undress, and wrapped the thin blanket around me for comfort. Scrunched my eyes closed, wishing I could wake—by some miracle—to the sun-smoggy haze of Shiodome’s brightness.

A rattling blast echoed outside my bedroom window. I threw off the blanket and fumbled for my cell phone, forgetting I could only reach Kyoko with it, or, heaven forbid, our editor Dave.

I imagined a crazed Appalachian farmer, like the
American Gothic
painting, at my front door waving his pitchfork.

Then the rumble of a car engine faded, complete with horn blasting the first notes of “Dixie.” And another smaller backfire as it careened down the road. Drunken idiots!

I slowly released the cell phone, heart pounding, and plopped back on the bed.

You’re not in Tokyo anymore, Toto! I scrunched angrily in a ball. You’re in Churchville! The only gunshots I’d probably hear would be aimed at birds or badgers or something.

Stillness returned, and I tried to relax. Pressed my nose to the blankets to find any trace of Mom’s scent. They smelled like her, as did the whole house: soft and floral, like fabric softener. She wore Avon perfume. On her good days, with her light brown hair pulled up and amethyst earrings dangling, I’d even thought she looked pretty.

Forget sleep. I balled up the blanket and marched down the hall to the living room. Flipped on the TV, blinking in the bright blue glow, and watched a silly British comedy on PBS. But I couldn’t laugh. Couldn’t even smile.

Everything, from the carpet to the wallpaper to the pictures on the wall, reminded me of Mom. The whole house breathed her; unfamiliar and strange, yet vaguely comforting.

I stared at the flickering screen and tried to blot out the emotions that materialized without warning, like clouds over the moon.

I slept on the sofa, blanket wrapped around me like a cocoon, and woke only when early morning thunder rattled the windows. I felt leaden, zombie-like. Didn’t even put on fresh clothes. Just padded around in my house slippers, hair a mess.

The thought of seeing the rest of the house sickened me. It belonged to Mom, not me—no matter what the lawyer’s papers said.

I was intruding on a stranger. Because that’s what she was to me.

I considered calling Adam to apologize. If he couldn’t forgive me, at least I could thank him and say good-bye civilly. I stared at my cell phone for twenty minutes rehearsing my speech with the international card in my hand.

Pressed the buttons, and … nothing. Not even a dial tone. I dialed Faye in a panic, but again, nothing.

They’ve disconnected my service. My last bill in Japan … I probably hadn’t paid it.

I shut my cell phone and dialed Adam from the house phone. Stood there stupidly, cord dangling, waiting for him to pick up before I realized it, too, had no dial tone.

The Internet. They’re probably connected to the same plan. Maybe …

I rushed into the library, trying not to look at the Mom-world of books or the icons splashed across her screen as I jiggled the mouse, computer groaning to life. The clunker of a computer obviously still worked, although her waterfall-Bible-verse wallpaper stopped me in my slippers. Wouldn’t spaceships landing in Arizona be more appropriate?

There. The blue Internet icon. I reached for it, poised to click.

AP. The PM’s wife. Forty-five minutes. “Did you get Schwartz to edit this? Because I’m not wasting any more time doing it myself!”

I dropped the mouse like a hot Japanese sweet potato.

I
switched off the computer and stormed out of the room, a lump forming in my throat. A little Internet icon had ruined my entire life.

No, you ruined your entire life, Shiloh P. Jacobs!

I didn’t even need to click, thanks to the red bar across the bottom of the screen before I shut it down. Internet disconnected. Last night’s brief phone call with Adam had been the last gasp.

At least the electricity and water still worked. Then again, who really cared anyway?

A chill settled over the house. I grabbed another blanket and put on socks. Poured a bowl of cereal and slumped at the table, watching tree branches shiver in the stormy breeze. Normally a good run, even in the rain, would have pumped some life and cheer into my heart. But not today. I left my gym clothes and tennis shoes in the suitcase.

If I’d ever felt hopeless in my life, it was now. I was cold, exhausted, and utterly drained. It could have been ten in the morning or ten at night. I had no idea. And I could care less.

Sunday rolled in blearier than Saturday, shrouded in coldgrayness. All the green that had enchanted me before seemed soggy, dark, and mute, as if it had fled with the sun.

Stifling memories suffocated me, and I abruptly picked up Mom’s car keys and slogged out to the car.

Sat there in the driveway, looking out at the drizzly morning and inhaling the sweet berry smell of Mom’s car air freshener. Not a single crumb littered her super-clean carpet. A Virginia School for the Deaf and Blind cup sat suspended in the cup holder, as if caught in time. A sweater and manila folder of student work on the passenger seat.

I reached out unconsciously to touch them, to hold what Mom had loved, but I couldn’t. I drew back. Turned on the car and backed out of the driveway.

I reminded myself not to do anything stupid like I’d done at Jerusalem Chapel. After all, I couldn’t call Adam now. But I needed to get away.

The streets shined rainy and empty, and warm, yellow-lighted windows gleamed back at me across the gloom. All the houses in Crawford Manor looked pretty much the same, save different paint and shingle colors: blocky, quaint, country-cute. Wooden shutters. Trimmed shrubs. Front porches. American flags.

Some houses had been dolled up nicely with expensive grass and dark brown mulch. Others, sporting dilapidated siding and old car parts, looked like they harbored criminals. One was painted …

Purple?! I braked, staring in disbelief as rain poured outside.

I thanked my lucky stars I wouldn’t live in Crawford Manor long. Especially when I spotted an actual PINK FLAMINGO stuck in one yard—no, make that two—along with random tufts of faded plastic flowers in unnatural colors like turquoise blue and bright red and a couple of plastic chipmunks.

If I’d had my head about me, I would have snapped some pictures for Kyoko. But today it just made me more depressed.

I slushed my tires out of Crawford Manor and sat at theintersection, not knowing which way to go. Turned right. And passed, after a parting of trees, a neat little country church crowded with cars.

Right. Today’s Sunday. Faye had invited me to church.

Loneliness came so strongly I actually considered going just to see some fresh faces and smiles, but then looked down at my rumpled clothes and changed my mind. Drifted past the church and rainy hills. Gazed at the houses and long brick high school appearing on my left. Counted cows munching soggy grass.

The road forked. I glimpsed, through wiper blades, the redneck-est gas station on earth, and signs for other towns pointing down desolate roads toward the mountains.

Nothing else. I turned the car around in the gas station and headed back, marooned on a lifeless planet.

I found myself pulling into the church parking lot and just sat there on the gravel, not sure why I’d come. Just like the time I found myself in front of Mrs. Inoue’s shop in my house slippers.