Chapter 20

Kazuki placed the CD in the player. Finding the volume low, he turned the knob another quarter turn and restarted the disk: Mendelssohn’s Symphony Number Three, the Scottish symphony.

A visit to Scotland had inspired Mendelssohn to compose the symphony; the overture was the composer’s musical response to the eerie magnificence of the grotto known as Fingal’s Cave in the Hebrides, a rocky, windswept archipelago off the west coast of Scotland. Mendelssohn called the sea cave a natural cathedral. In the music, Kazuki heard the sounds of the North Atlantic waves breaking and reconstituting—dying and aborning—at its entrance, repeating themselves in stirring, weirdly unsettling variations against the basalt walls and columns. Some believed it a sacred portal: an earth womb. Others, a sepulcher.

Kazuki sat down before the laptop.

Fingal’s Cave/27
THE DISAPPEARANCE

On Yuudai’s left the forest drew back, revealing a low, dark green meadow divided by a silver stream, the mirror only broken where it ran over boulder and bough. Above the lush field a hawk flew in a lazy circle, and above the hawk interminable blue, flawed only by a silver jet crawling west. Through the car’s open windows, mingled with the scent of pine and juniper, the breeze carried the meadow’s sweet breath, like a waiting girl’s. Yuudai adjusted the rearview mirror, which had loosened and would not remain steady. He centered Brent and James. An hour ago, they stopped along a stretch of redwoods, wandering for an hour in the cool dusky air under the umbrella of the enormous trees. Spotting a blackberry bush, Yuudai popped one of the riper ones in his mouth and urged his sons to fill themselves on the plump fruit.

“Some of these trees are a thousand years old,” said Yuudai, as they chewed the berries, bending back his head to stare at the nearly invisible treetops. “Imagine. Centuries before Columbus discovered America.”

“He didn’t,” said Brent. “It was Leif Erikson.”

“The Indians were already here,” added James.

Father and sons joined hands to see if they could encircle one of the trees, but no matter how close they hugged the wood, their outer fingertips would not touch.

The family had planned the camping trip months ago, but at the last moment, Sumiko developed a painful stomach flu. She had found the open campsite, not easy at the height of the season, made the reservations, packed the clothing, but she was too sick to go. She urged Yuudai to take the boys. They looked forward to doing so much: fishing, mountain biking, swimming under waterfalls, finding Indian arrowheads. How could he disappoint them? Yuudai agreed, and he didn’t slough off a pledge when Sumiko made him promise not to take chances.

As they drove deeper into the mountains, Yuudai’s pulse quickened. As a boy, Yuudai had not once gone on a real outdoors vacation. His father, Herb, was too entangled in his cause to bother with family outings. In fact, Herb had taken the family on only one trip. It was to California. The family flew and then rented a car. Yuudai remembered driving across a vast valley of apple orchards, not knowing clearly where his father was taking them. In the distance were snow-peaked mountains, but they were not going to the mountains. At some point they got behind a caravan of cars, all apparently going to the same destination. When the other cars pulled to the roadside, Herb parked behind them. Yuudai was surprised to see that most of the people getting out of their cars looked like the people in the picture books his father collected: Japanese. Herb led his family to the site where the people were gathering. There wasn’t much to see. Some big posts, some tombstones.

“Where are we, Dad?” asked Yuudai.

“Manzanar,” said his father, his sleeve to his eyes.

The boys’ bikes were mounted on the car’s roof. As a strong oblique wind struck the car, the wheels whirred.

“How much longer, Dad?” asked James.

“Just around the bend,” said Yuudai.

“Think there’s fish in that water?” asked Brent, pointing to the winding stream, which threw off rainbows.

“I can see the trout jumping,” said Yuudai.

“Let’s go for it,” said Brent.

“Oh, we’ll have plenty of time.”

Yuudai glanced again in the mirror. He loved the intensity in his sons’ eyes when they anticipated their next adventure. Concentrated light, like laser beams. But in the rearview, he saw nothing, as if they had jumped out of the car. It took him only an instant to realize that the mirror was totally out of whack. He adjusted it, found his sons.

They reached the promised bend in the road. The meadow disappeared behind them and the forest closed in. A sign told them that Hawk’s Flight Camp was two miles distant. Yuudai accelerated past the speed limit, squealing around a tight curve. James and Brent discussed motocross techniques. The sun touched the treetops.

Hawk’s Flight Camp One Mile.

In the cooler were hotdogs and beef patties. He would have to start a fire. He tried to remember if he had brought the propane stove. There was so much camping stuff to remember.

Hawk’s Flight Camp Five Hundred Yards.

Yuudai glanced to a clearing on the left-hand side of the road. There was a tavern: Boom Boom’s for Beer and Pizza. There were a couple of cars in the parking lot, one a vintage red Mustang. Red interior, too. Pretty.

“Look, Dad, pizza.”

“Yeah, I see that . . .”

As the bar slid by, a woman got out of the Mustang. Yuudai caught her shapely profile.

It was a big, well-situated campsite and the ground was level where they pitched the tent. In an hour, they had the tent up, the sleeping bags arranged inside. They had everything they needed but the propane stove.

The boys were already riding their bikes on the trails around the campsite. Nearby were numerous families setting up camp or cooking. The smell of the grilled meat made Yuudai’s mouth water. He remembered the woman who had gotten out of the Mustang. She wore a red and white checkered shirt. On a nearby path, Brent raced his bike toward a mound, pulling back on the handlebars but then leaning forward as he hit the little hill. The bike flew above the ground, landing with a satisfying thump. James followed, not quite as fast.

They took the jump again.

“Boys, how does pizza sound?” called out Yuudai.

The nearby families, the smoke drifting lazily into the treetops, a doe and fawn foraging at the edge of camp.

“Come on,” said Yuudai. “Lock up the bikes.”

“Can’t we stay?” asked Brent.

“Better come.”

“We’ll be fine,” said James.

Yuudai again considered the surroundings. How could such peace not be trusted?

When Yuudai pulled into the parking lot of Boom Boom’s, the Mustang was still there.

Like most roadside bars in the mountains, the tavern was an accumulation of discards and therefore familiar and comforting; its walls were covered with license plates from every state, no doubt removed from wrecks and cars that had given up the ghost on the long ascent, and its log tables etched with countless visitors’ names, many long out of fashion: Jeds and Mabels. A nice place to have a beer, but Yuudai would order his food and go.

Extra large. Half mushroom, half pepperoni.

Adjacent to the take-out counter, a worn hardwood bar supported the arms of a few rustic patrons. The woman from the Mustang occupied the nearest stool. Maybe a year or two older than Yuudai from the lines around her mouth when she smiled at him, she was very pretty with a petite figure, the slope of her breasts visible within the unbuttoned collar of her worn flannel shirt. When Yuudai glanced at her, she took off her glasses and set them on the bar, pushing back her straight auburn hair. Her soft green eyes stayed on his and her full lips broke into an amused smile. Why not have a beer while he waited? From the rough-hewn bartender he ordered a tall beer and slipped onto the chair beside her. She was pretty and laughed at his remarks, but he wasn’t looking to cheat on Sumiko—even if he had a second beer, bought the pretty woman another Jack and Coke and held his breath when she pressed her leg against his. He felt the firmness and heat through the denim.

“I’m Demi. What’s your name?” the woman asked.

“Yuudai O’Keefe.”

“Yuudai? What kind of name is that?”

“Japanese.”

She pulled back her head. “No offense, but you don’t look Japanese.”

“It’s a long story.”

She lifted her drink. “I’m in no rush.”

Yuudai began, “My father, Herb O’Keefe, was assistant tail gunner on the Enola Gay . . .”

“Wow, that’s one hellacious tale,” said Demi, as Yuudai drummed his fingers on the pizza box that had cooled during the length of his family chronicle. Demi stilled his hand with hers, pressed against him and whispered in his ear, “You smoke?”

The old Mustang smelled of marijuana, and its red leather upholstery was soon absorbing another sweet cloud. She unbuttoned easily.

He didn’t think of the camp at Manzanar. He didn’t think of the boys getting hungry. He didn’t think of Sumiko’s illness. He didn’t think of Sumiko. He thought of this pretty body that he’d never seen or touched.

By the time Yuudai got back to camp, it was eight P.M., an hour later than when he’d told the boys he’d return with dinner. He wasn’t surprised when they weren’t at the campsite. They’d gotten bored and were no doubt riding their bicycles on one of the nearby paths. He waited for ten minutes, as the forest squeezed out the remaining sunlight and an owl hooted. By flashlight he walked the paths, calling out their names. He went to each of the nearby campsites—marshmallows and s’mores—a staticky baseball game on a boom box. No one had seen them. He returned to the paths. Each breath growing shorter, he drove back to the bar, thinking that his restless sons might have taken their bikes to find him. Another woman had replaced Demi, nudging up to another man, downing another Jack and Coke, her flannel shirt opened another button. Yuudai leaned across the bar, calling to the bartender. “My sons . . . I can’t—”

“It happens all the time. They wandered away. They’ll be fine. Probably found their own way back by now.”

But the bartender said he would call a ranger just to be safe.

Like the bartender, the ranger who showed up an hour later assured him that they would find his children. A mile deep in the woods, hungry and crying, but okay.

The ranger took a description of the two boys and told Yuudai to remain at the bar. He would look for them on horseback. Have a beer, relax.

Yuudai had a beer, ignored the woman speaking with him, stared at the collection of abandoned children’s playthings on a shelf below the beer bottles. A toy soldier, a ballerina, a Rubik’s Cube, a fire engine, a tiny watch, a set of dinosaurs—a fierce charging triceratops. Yuudai heard his father’s voice.

“The mother’s hiding these little plastic dinosaurs on the café’s patio . . .”

When the ranger hadn’t returned in an hour, Yuudai told the bartender he was going back to his campsite. The bartender urged him to stay, but Yuudai couldn’t breathe. With each attempted inhalation he drew in Demi’s checkered shirt, as if someone had stuck the fabric in his mouth and he was sucking it in, choking himself, drowning in flannel.

He forgot to turn on his headlights, and one hundred yards beyond the bar, he couldn’t understand the black stretch of road, so he accelerated to get beyond the dark. Get back to camp, get out on those paths. He would hear their cries in the night.

He had the momentary sensation of flying, as if he had hit a little hill and had pulled back on the steering wheel, and then a boom and cartoon lights and then blackness.

The instant later was three days later when he awoke.

“Where—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. O’Keefe. We’ve searched . . .”

Brent and James had vanished into the forest.

His children were gone.