Sophie and the Rising Sun (6 page)

But Sophie refused to cry. Because crying would mean that Miss Ruth had won. And once again, Sophie wondered what kind of power it was Miss Ruth had over everyone. Including her mama.

Who cares what she thinks, that old bag!

But certainly, Sophie’s mama cared. And so all because of Miss Ruth, Sophie lost her only playmates and her very best friend. Later, someone said that Sally’s mama had closed the crab house and moved with all the children to her sister’s house in Augusta. But Sally’s solemn face had floated in Sophie’s memory for many sad months before, finally, it dimmed and then faded away completely.

And that’s exactly what Sophie was thinking about now, all those years later, gazing at those same mean, little, glittering eyes that were now framed in deep wrinkles and gold-rimmed spectacles. But what Sophie didn’t know was that the glitter in Miss Ruth’s eyes was for titillation all right, but it was titillation for Sophie’s suggestion that they read something else. That, and the nearly imperceptible quaver in Sophie’s voice.

After the meeting that day, Miss Ruth and her old-lady friends—as Sophie thought of them privately—walked back down the street together and engaged in a far more interesting discussion than any book could have provided.

“I tell you, there’s something in her past,” Miss Ruth whispered. “It was a tragic love affair. I just
know
it.”

“Sophie? A love affair?” another said, incredulously, as if it were something she couldn’t imagine in her wildest dreams. “You know good and well her mama wouldn’t have put up with anything like that! And besides, when would Sophie have had time for an affair, what with her taking care of all those old ladies?”

“Well, she could have,” Miss Ruth argued illogically. “She was right pretty when she was young. Plain and not much in the way of a personality, but right pretty in a simple way. But of course, that didn’t last. Always something of a rebellious child, she was, though her mama sure tried hard to make her into a lady. Those are the ones, you know, always kick over the traces and have real, honest-to-goodness love affairs. She’s still like that—why, whoever heard of someone from a good family like her tending crab traps like she does, for goodness sake? And wearing those awful coveralls, right out in public? Heavens above!”

“Seems there was some talk about her and a young man—just before the Great War.”

“I heard it, too, but I never knew who he was.”

“One thing for sure...”

“What’s that?”

“He was one of the boys who didn’t come back. Else I expect she would have married him, wouldn’t she?”

A silence then, because Miss Ruth certainly didn’t have an answer for that, but she was still thinking,
There was something. I’m sure of it!

In her canvas chair
beneath the live oak, Sophie gazed across the sawgrass—imagining the ocean that was only a mile or so away, salty-sweet and glittering in the October sunshine. Then wondering idly where the water washing onto the shore had come from—maybe all the way from the shores of the Mediterranean or the smooth, white beaches of Hawaii. Or even the coast of France. Came all that way to merge with the fresh water drifting out of the mouth of the river.

But she couldn’t hold that mystic, drifting feeling such thoughts usually produced, and so she watched in disappointment while the feeling dissipated like a cloud that comes up on summer afternoons, one that looks like it is holding rain to pour down upon the waiting earth, but that somehow fails to hold its shape so that it rag-tags along and finally shreds into indistinct white ribbons that float away in the high breeze.

It must be all the news about the war,
she finally thought.
And not the idea of having to read about those poor lovers parting. But after all, how can those two things be separated? The radio blares out the news of what’s happening in Europe—poor England!—and now the Japanese invading Indochina. Where is it to end this time? Like before, with all those young men crossing the ocean to crawl around in muddy trenches and breathe the poison that wilts their lungs?

And how very well she could remember the haggard eyes and the wheezing breath of those few who came staggering back from France. And the haunting memory of those who never came home again.

Like Henry.

“Nothing lasts.” That’s what her mama always said.

But Sophie felt the vague stirring—the one that insisted that he
would
come home. And the pure memory of him descended upon her, even after all those long years, so that she could breathe in his aroma and feel the warmth of his nearness. The rough texture of the wool uniform jacket, hear his vibrant voice, and feel the warmth of his hand holding hers.

But if that miracle were to happen, if he finally came back to her, would he still love her? Now that she had those small lines around her mouth and beside her eyes? And a couple of gray hairs near her temples?

For when she remembered him, she also remembered herself as she had been. Slender, pale arms and dark eyebrows that tilted upward. The firm chin and the deep chestnut shine of her hair.

And why is it all coming back to my mind now? Now that the face looking back at me in the mirror is a stranger’s face. The face of someone growing older. All soft in the jowls. And sad.

The forgotten volume of poetry was warm and firm against her breast, and her mind began to turn in slow, lazy spirals ever downward, just like a patient buzzard circling in summer air. So that when she drifted into a light sleep, she was young once again, and pretty. And very much in love.

But, Mama, it isn’t like that! He’s a very nice boy.

Mr. Oto remembered those words throughout the long, long journey by bus across the country, sometimes thinking of their wisdom and then again rankling bitterly because they seemed to be words such as a father would speak to a young, impetuous, and completely foolish son—not to him! Not with the maturity of his years!

So that when he arrived in New York, he put away everything his father said, and that was exactly the mistake that cost him everything—his honor, his father’s trust, and even perhaps his aunt’s one opportunity to join her family in faraway California.

For he had just stepped off the bus in New York when a very well-dressed man came right up to him and offered him the opportunity to gain much more money than he had. Mr. Oto hesitated, but then he thought that perhaps this was a custom of the city—a courtesy extended to strangers from far away. Mr. Oto imagined himself returning to California in triumph—bringing not only his father’s sister, but also more money than his father had given to him when he left. How proud his father would be!

So he went willingly with the man into an alley near the station, where two other men were laughing together and having great fun with a wonderful game Mr. Oto never heard of. They were throwing white cubes with black dots on them onto the pavement and then exchanging money, still laughing.

What good luck!
he thought—that they were willing to include him in their game, and for only a few pennies. And on the next throw of the cubes, they told him that he had won over ten dollars. When they counted out the pile of dollar bills into his hands, his good will toward those fine fellows nearly brought tears to his eyes. Why at this rate, he would return to his father bearing a great fortune that would assure him of high standing in the community.

On the next roll of the cubes, he won again, and his new friends piled even more bills into his hands. So he reached deep into his pocket and brought out the roll of money his father had given him for purchasing the two tickets back to California—one for himself and one for his aunt.

So suddenly, they were upon him, punching him with their hard fists and cursing and kicking him and... worst of all... wrenching the money away from his hand. Finally the punching and the kicking and the screaming curses stopped, and he heard them running away. He opened his bruised eyes to see the two white cubes with the black dots on them lying disinterestedly on the ground before him.

When he was able to walk, he wandered around the alley, unsure of what to do. Go to his aunt, who was waiting for him, and confess to her? But then what? The money for their bus tickets was gone. What could he do but reveal his stupidity and his shame right to her face?

No!

All day, he wept and argued with himself, and that night, he slept—still bruised and aching—beneath a cardboard box in another alley. The next day, he moved about the backstreets as if in a daze, trying to think about what he should do, and hating himself for not listening to his father. By afternoon, hunger began to gnaw ferociously at his belly, and he had trouble remembering where he was and what had happened to him.

He began digging through the trash cans that stood behind a restaurant where the succulent aromas of food almost drove him insane, and after his empty stomach lurched in alarm at the amorphous clumps of spoiled food, he found some scraps of bread that were miraculously clean, and he ate them greedily, thinking that it was the best bread he had ever tasted. After he swallowed the last morsel and licked his fingers clean of any stray crumbs, he wept and remembered his father’s house and the plentiful food on his father’s table. And the faces of his brothers.

The second night, he slept under the same cardboard box and dreamed of the garden behind his father’s small house in faraway California, of the bougainvillea and

the pink petunias and the tiny pool with water lilies and a few beautiful, small goldfish in it. But in the middle of that beautiful dream, he awakened to loud voices and scuffling and grunting sounds, and he drew himself quietly into a small, quivering ball. But just as quickly as he felt the terrible fear and huddled against it—like an animal hiding under a fallen log—he realized that, truly, he had nothing to fear. The money was gone, and all that was left was his life. At that very moment, should someone have taken that, he would have considered it to be a just repayment for his foolishness. And perhaps even a blessed relief from his suffering.

But whoever was in the alley that night did not look under the box.

At the first gray daylight that came into the alley, Mr. Oto came out from under the box, hungrier than ever. His only thoughts were of food—great bowls of steaming rice and crisp garden vegetables and succulent sauces—but then he saw a black wallet on the ground near the trash cans. He glanced around quickly and then grabbed it, praying that it would contain money for food. Clean food. And hot.
Please! Just a bowl of rice! Clean, steaming rice.