I rummaged around in my matchbox dresser trying to select an outfit. It wasn’t a date, I told myself, it was a study night and dinner with Owen and his mother at their suburban Evanston house. Owen didn’t live in the dorms like the rest of us, but a shared bunk room and a moldy, soap-glazed group bathroom would not have constrained his urbane coolness.
I took a swig from my water glass to cool down and splashed a little on my cheeks. I put on a yellow dress that displayed my shoulders and neck but wasn’t too revealing. I took pains to hide what I considered my worst flaw, my scrawny arms, which made me look like an anorexic or a refugee from some foreign starvation. My legs weren’t much better, but at least they were toned and tan from walking around campus every day.
The sun set purple grey as I walked the ten blocks from campus to Owen’s house, and the air held the first stages of autumn decay, sweet green leaves bleeding tart orange and brown at their edges. The further I got from school, the more elegant the streets became. Neighborhoods morphed from faded wooden duplexes fronted by scraggly bushes, to large well-kept homes with flowering dogwoods shading rolling green yards. It was nothing like my Oakville cul-de-sac where each tract house was a mirror image of the next one, with white aluminum siding and prefab front doors.
As I walked further from campus, homes mirrored the diversity of the student population; big, small, messy, tidy, colorful, plain, ornate. One had a gunmetal Pi sculpture in the front yard, another a white rocking hammock, and another a tumble of children’s toys. I took slow breaths to compose myself.
“No need to be nervous. Not a date,” Rose texted, as if reading my mind.
When I arrived at what turned out to be a mini mansion complete with perfect hedge rows, I stopped in front of towering front doors with inlayed, etched art deco glass. Suddenly they swung inward and a striking woman was squeezing my hand.
“I’m so glad Owen has a friend in Illinois,” she said, with warm formality. She had on chic black eyeglasses and a red silk blouse, and her skin was the smoothest I’d ever seen. I stared at her too long and she smiled. “Welcome,” she said. “Please come in.” She pushed the door open wider, to reveal glowing white marble floors. Unlike Owen, Mrs. Ota had a slight accent.
“Thank you,” I said, handing her the small bouquet of pink spray roses I’d picked up at the corner market. I tried not to stare, but I’d never seen the luxurious shade of red silk she wore or skin that shone like glass.
She ushered me through a high-ceilinged foyer into a large dining room, where Owen was seated at a black lacquer table, much too long and wide for just three of us. My heart jumped as it always did at the sight of Owen.
“Lu!” he said, more loudly than necessary. He stood and stiffly half hugged me, more of a shoulder bump than an embrace. Cold air slapped my face as it tumbled down from open vents up in the wall. Owen’s face was blank, as though he’d never seen me before, his expression guarded, semi-friendly. Not knowing what to make of this, I took a seat across from him and commented that his house was beautiful.
“Yeah, it’s fancy, I know,” he said, sarcastic.
I assured him that I meant it as a compliment, told him I had never been in such a nice home. His face softened then, and he stopped looking through me. Finally, he smiled his perfect smile, and a wash of relief trickled over me. There was Owen, not the robotic stranger who’d greeted me.
He told me I looked “nice” and reached for one of the tiny pink teacups on the table, handed it to me. We sipped warm green tea while his mom jostled around in the kitchen. The dining table’s edges were ornately carved with swirling vines and it was decorated with delicate white orchids and votive candles. I almost giggled aloud at how different this was from my parent’s functional Pier One dining set, pressed wood with plastic hinges, and store-bought pizza as its centerpiece. I couldn’t identify the tangy scents wafting around. Aside from kitchen rustlings, Owen’s house was quiet, as if pausing so we could have a private moment before his mother joined us. I wanted to say something to draw out his perfect smile again. But we didn’t speak, we just sat sipping our tea. I burned with anticipation about the evening and what might happen between us.
Finally, Owen broke our silence, not with something romantic or personal, but with talk of schoolwork. He asked if I’d be okay doing our report on haiku, told me he had two copies of an excellent haiku book. I’d never studied haiku before and I paused, unsure.
“I’ll teach you,” he said, in a lowered voice, reaching across the table for my hand. “It will be my honor to show you this Japanese art.”
His mother came into the room carrying a platter and she noticed our clasped hands. Owen was slow to release my hand while his mother’s eyes were on us. A tinge of unease hit my back and suddenly I was unsure. What were we beginning with this dinner and why was he so cold at first? Not a date, but do people not on dates hold hands? I pushed my questions away, decided that anything was possible. He’d held my hand and that meant something.
Ms. Ota started by serving thin slices of raw tuna. “Ahi,” she said, a delicacy. My parents had taken me to the only sushi restaurant in Oakville and my Northwestern dining hall served it sometimes, so I wasn’t unfamiliar with it. “In Japan,” Mrs. Ota said, “the most highly regarded chefs in Japan get their picks of the best quality fish.” The chefs at the bottom of the ranks get the dregs, she added, with a sly smile. Like Owen’s, Mrs. Ota’s teeth were small and perfect, her eyes dark and deep-set, attractively framed by black eyeliner. The ahi was sweet butter and salt on my tongue.
“It’s delicious,” I said, trying to be nonchalant. Owen told his mother that I was “willing” to learn about haiku, that we were doing a haiku project together. “Yes,” I added, unnecessarily, and she remarked that our choice to write about haiku was “wonderful.”
“Such a beautiful art. Did you know that Owen is a published haiku poet?” she said. Owen threw me a small, self-conscious smile and pointed out that it was just a local publication in Tokyo, nothing big. I was floored, told him he was the only person I’d ever known that’d published anything other than in a school paper or website.
“Owen is modest,” Mrs. Ota said, beams of pride brightening her beautiful eyes. I pictured my own mother, a mouse in her bedroom back in Oakville. She hadn’t said she was proud of me since I returned to college, since I’d unwrapped myself from my leaded blanket of grief. She’d mainly worried me with silence and when she did speak, she warned me to be “safe.” How wonderful it must be to have a mother like Owen’s, so glamourous and open and radiating raw maternal love.
The next dish was a steaming platter of tempura vegetables, carrots, sweet potatoes, string beans and onions. I ate more than my share of soft crunchy potatoes dipped in ginger and soy sauce. She brought in the main course on a gleaming black lacquer tray, a heaping bowl of rice and cuttlefish smothered in pungent yellow curry. I struggled through half a bowl with my nose running and then put my fork down, trying not to clink it on the plate, hoping Mrs. Ota wouldn’t notice.
“Not to worry, Lucy. Dessert will clear out the burn,” she said, and replaced the curry with a little square, like a tiny pineapple upside-down cake. I don’t recall the name of the cake, only that it tasted cool and fruity. The rest of our conversation during the meal was light. Mrs. Ota asked me questions about Oakville and asked how I liked college. I avoided talking about my father, didn’t want to throw wet wool over this shiny, laden moment.
Mrs. Ota said she hadn’t planned to come to Illinois but was willing when her company sought to transfer her. “Luckily Owen’s school records were strong enough for late acceptance to Northwestern,” she said.
“Lucy’s mother is a teacher,” Owen said, shifting the focus away from himself. I’d forgotten I’d mentioned my mother in class introductions. My dad had been a teacher too, but I hadn’t mentioned him in class.
“Ah. We call that sensei in Japanese,” Mrs. Ota said. “Teachers are treated with utmost respect in Japan. You must be proud to be the daughter of a sensei.” Pride hadn’t been on my radar. My parents’ jobs were respectable, nice, stable, but I hadn’t considered them as worthy of high honor, and my dad, well my feelings were a mixture of love and shame. “Will you be a sensei too?” she’d asked, and I’d said journalism was my probable plan.
Mrs. Ota wanted to know about my travels, where I’d been and what I’d seen. I was embarrassed to admit I’d only traveled in the Midwest, places my parents and I could go by car, Michigan, Indiana, and around Illinois, mainly. I didn’t want to talk about my meager life, my limited worldliness, so I asked her how she liked Illinois.
“We won’t get too attached since it’s our temporary home.” I was struck by her use of the pronoun “we,” as if she and her son not only shared a home but felt the same feelings, an agreement not to become attached to Illinois. My full belly gurgled with unease at the thought of Owen leaving Northwestern. She continued, “Owen tells me you might consider a study abroad program. You’d love Japan. We have a graceful and unique culture.”
Owen rubbed his chin and smiled at me, asking for commiseration. “Yes,” I lied. “I’ve been thinking about it.” Up until that moment, I’d never thought about it, never discussed with Owen or anyone else the idea of studying in Japan. Of course, since I met him, I’d been pondering the country, picturing myself there with Owen, but not really considering how I might get there. I shot him a questioning look.
When his mother carried dishes into the kitchen, Owen said, “I don’t know why I told her that. I guess I thought it would make her happy.”
“Happy that I’d want to study in Japan?” I whispered, keeping our secret. “Why?”
“She likes anyone better if they like Japan, that’s all.” The chair felt hard on my tailbone and I shifted my weight. Owen stood, said something about being tired, preferring to start the haiku project tomorrow instead of tonight. He shouted to his mom that I had to go.
She poked her head out of the kitchen. “Goodbye, Lucy. See you again soon?” Her elegant voice held a tinge of hope.
Owen guided me to the door. He didn’t hug me goodbye, but instead touched my shoulder in the same spot he’d touched in the hall at school. He promised me we’d work on the project the next day and then he said, “I’ll show you my fort too.”
In my hustle out the front door I didn’t think to ask him why he had a fort, why anyone twenty-one years old would have a fort. I did say, “haiku,” as if confirming a private deal we’d struck. “Yep. Haiku tomorrow,” he said. “Bye.” He didn’t offer to walk me back to campus and I was ejected out into the night.
I hurried to the dorm under the inky sky. My skin grew damp from the heavy hot breeze after the air-conditioned house. My right hand, which had held Owen’s, was warm, as if blushing, and my shoulder was tingly where he’d touched. I tiptoed past the common room and climbed into bed, closing my eyes hard, muting my phone so I wouldn’t have to talk to Rose if she called.
I tried to sleep but instead I pondered my time in the gorgeous house, the spicy Japanese food, and Owen’s beautiful mother gazing at him with such pride. Owen’s behavior had been a little off, cold and then warm and then cool again, but maybe he was nervous. I turned on Rufus Wainright’s version of “Hallelujah.” As the chorus rose and fell, I repeated little mantras in my mind in hopes that they’d take hold in my sleep and I’d dream them into reality. Owen and me, in love, in Japan. Such juvenile fantasies, but at the time, I didn’t know.