I changed into jeans and a cotton blouse, sipped a glass of cold white wine. My drinking had been escalating, but I gave myself the excuse of all the stress I’d been under. Hisashi texted me that he was downstairs. When I got into his car, he said hello like he always did, warmly with a smile. I worked up my courage. “I liked your brother very much,” I began.
“You said you dated him,” Hisashi said.
“Well, I guess I wasn’t sure if we were dating,” I said, cautiously, not wanting to be insensitive. “I only knew him for a month. But I definitely cared for him.”
“Owen has that effect on people. Everyone’s attracted to him.” Hisashi’s fleshy profile bore no resemblance to Owen’s, but his voice had a similar sweet intonation.
“You and Owen seem very different.”
“I’d say.” Hisashi glanced over at me, his eyes narrow. “You didn’t know he’s gay?” A tumble of memories washed over me. In his fort, Owen had been affectionate and hostile at the same time, holding me too tightly, making out with me and then pushing me away. I remembered how he held my hand and kissed me while we were studying, long enough so his mother would see.
“I didn’t know. I don’t think he wanted me to know. But we were more than friends.”
“Okay,” he said. “I get that’s how you felt.” The busy street whizzed by outside and our headlights shone dully into the grey night. A new filter curtained my memories of Owen. It all made sense now, his strange behavior. I had been so attracted, so mesmerized, but to a figment of my creation, not a real person.
“I decided to move to Japan because of Owen.”
“Wow.”
“Not just to be with him, but because his descriptions of Japan fascinated me. Now it seems so silly, chasing a man and an idea all the way across the world.”
“No. I can understand. Everyone loves Owen, even my father. And even though my father told him he brought shame to our family; I know he still loves Owen. The thing is, he forced Owen and Mom to move back to Tokyo so Owen could attend some sort of anti-gayness retreat. Our dad wanted to drive the gayness out of him. Owen couldn’t see a way out of his situation. Either he lived a lie, or he disappointed our father.”
I fought back tears, not wanting Hisashi to see me cry again. It would be so cruel, me crying over someone I barely knew, sitting next to someone who truly loved Owen. More and more my girlhood crush revealed itself for what is was. Silly. Immature. Unrealistic. I said, “He told me once that he liked me because I respected him.”
“I’m sure that was true. He was always looking for respect.”
“I was heartbroken when he left.”
“Owen breaks a lot of hearts.”
I worried that Hisashi might think me a bit ridiculous, but I wanted to know more. “Why Suicide Forest?” I asked.
Hisashi grimaced. “It’s a place people go to be anonymous. Owen wanted to disappear, to erase himself. Suicide Forest is an abomination, a place from Japan’s past that should be plowed over.” His voice was full of sorrow and anger and out of respect, I didn’t ask anything more. Owen Ota wasn’t mine anymore, and I knew really, he never was.
As if I’d been veiled for a year, my surroundings were suddenly stark, swathed in bright clarity. Palm trees and houses out the car window, and a friendly handsome man next to me. It was the first time since moving to Japan that I didn’t feel like I was in a fog. We drove into a quaint neighborhood with picturesque houses. I asked Hisashi if he’d been to Amista’s house before and he said he had, many times, that she invited him every few months. “Does she invite the others from work?” I asked.
“Sometimes Ashimine-san, but you’re the first American.”
Amista’s house was a one-story brick building, painted white, not the typical typhoon-battered grey concrete of so many Okinawan buildings. There was a pretty rock garden and bubbling fountain by a narrow stone path to the front door, which was guarded by two small stone shisas. Amista was shoeless when she opened the front door and we slipped off our shoes and left them on the tatami mat. The house smelled like jasmine with a touch of Okinawa’s ever-present ginger and simmering curry scents wafted from the kitchen. We sat on low-slung furniture, traditional Japanese minimalist black lacquer chairs, soft futons and cushions on the floor. Ex-Marine Lester turned out to be much smaller than Amista and he gazed at her, larger than him by two times, with adoration. He touched her any time he was close enough to do so. A hand on her arm, a touch on the back of her neck.
At dinner Amista and Lester served delicious grilled shrimp with fragrant curry sauce, fresh corn on the cob, and sweet melon for dessert. Lester kept filling up our glasses with white wine and we were all warm and drunk by the time the melon was devoured.
“I hear you’ve had a bit of a rough go,” Lester said to me, as we moved from the dining room to the living room.
“I guess so,” I said, not sure which rough thing he was referring to.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He sat back into the couch and his belly was up high and round, his hand rested on Amista’s thigh. “The upskirt guy, well that’s just awful. And no way to treat a newcomer.”
“I don’t think he picked me because I’m a newcomer. He probably picked me because I’m oblivious. Had no idea it even happened until the police told me.”
“It could happen to anyone,” Hisashi said.
“True,” said Amista. “Lester, tell Lucy what happened right after we moved here.”
Lester leaned back in his chair and told me that back in 2000, when he and Amista had first arrived, Okinawa was in the midst of protests then too. A guy from Lester’s squadron was accused of beating to death a bartender at a local nightclub. It was the headline news every day and all anyone could talk about. Lester and Amista lived on Camp Foster at the time and one night as they rode bikes home from dinner, a kid on the sidewalk kicked Lester so hard it knocked him off his bike onto the pavement.
“I’ll never forget that big black boot coming toward me,” Lester said. “The fall didn’t hurt much, but I was in shock about what the boy said.” Lester paused here with a grimace. “He said, ‘Fuck you, gaijin.’ A kid! He couldn’t have been more than fifteen.” Hearing the term gaijin again was like a punch in the ribs.
“Someone said that to Lucy in court yesterday,” Hisashi said. “Gaijin.”
I cringed and Lester continued. “Well, I knew there was something wrong in that kid’s heart, not that there was something wrong with Okinawa. I never took it personally.” He touched my arm. “And, I hope you won’t either.” Lester spoke with sincerity and kindness.
“What happened to the guy from your squadron?” I asked.
“He was guilty,” Amista said. “Sent to Okinawan prison for a long time.”
The word gaijin had been sitting in my mind for a few days. I’d been called a gaijin and of course, Owen had felt he was one too, both in the U.S. and in his own family. It was a poignancy I wished we didn’t share.
The conversation around the table shifted to the big news, the rape allegation and protests, and I was glad to have the focus off me. Lester wanted to know if Amista had turned up anything new in her reporting.
“Both sides say the other is lying. Nothing new about that. But I did find out that Stone has a temper problem. Been arrested in the past for public fighting. I’m going to write that part of the story tomorrow.”
We sat and discussed the case. Hisashi was certain Stone was guilty. Amista said it wasn’t yet clear. Lester agreed with Hisashi. I wasn’t sure about anything on Okinawa and certainly didn’t know the answer to this painful question. We all agreed that whether a rape happened or not, both parties’ lives could be ruined as a result of this court case. Airman Stone’s reputation could be permanently damaged. Midori Ishikori could be scarred for life. Japan itself could be changed if the protests succeeded in getting military bases shut down.
Lester stood and put both hands on Amista’s shoulders, rubbed them. “Anyone care for another sip of wine?” We moved out onto the back porch where glowing paper lanterns hung from a white wooden trellis overhead. The moonlight was muted by silver clouds. Lester gave a goodnight toast. “To new friends, Lucy and Hisashi, who we thank for coming to dinner.” Did Lester think Hisashi and I were a new couple?
“He knows you’re colleagues, not dating,” Amista whispered. She poked me in the ribs with a teasing finger.
Hisashi drove me home and walked me up to my apartment. Creepy Date-san peered at us over a newspaper as we passed. Upstairs, we sat on my small futon couch and he leaned closer to me and put his arm around my shoulder. He smelled musky and I leaned against his warm bulk. Our discussion about Owen had created an ease, an understanding between us. He hadn’t laughed at my naivete, about my belief that Owen and I had been in love, and I had a glimpse into the difficulties he was living with, the complexity of the Ota family. Sitting with Hisashi I recognized in him the same tender heart I’d seen in Owen and it softened and opened my own heart just a crack. When he left, he kissed me on the top of the head, like a brother would do.