Southern Fried Sushi (23 page)

A lump tightened in my throat as I remembered Mrs. Inoue and her wrinkled hands. Her ginger candy. I never got to say good-bye. I squeezed the steering wheel as if to crush out the memories. Mom had found peace in church; perhaps in some small measure I could, too.

Under the pines the rain had mostly stopped, save a few random spatters and taps on the windshield and roof. A soft mist settled. I rolled down the window to breathe in fresh air then froze, hand on the button.

The sound of singing.

I listened, both awed and amused by the melody rising and falling from the quaint white-and-brick chapel. I’d stood on the sidewalk in Shibuya and heard voices and someone banging on a piano and felt contempt for white men bringing their religion to an Asian people who did very well, thank you, without it.

But try as I might, I could never shake the sense of reverence and even wonder that swelled when I heard voices lifted inworship. Buddhist priests chanted in cold, dark, ancient Japanese temples, but they did not sing. At least not like the Christians I’d heard. Those Jesus freaks seemed alive, if not slightly out of touch with reality. But still they sang.

A raindrop from a pinecone splattered on the windshield in a flurry of silver, as if to shatter my prejudices.

On Monday morning the clouds broke up, and I felt like Cro-Magnon woman stepping out of her cave. I opened the windows, pulled back the curtains, even opened the doors. A fresh breeze poured through the house and open screen doors, echoing blue sky and bright sun.

My reflection in the bathroom mirror frightened me: hair unwashed, face pallid and depressed. I’d eaten all the cereal over the weekend (it served double-duty for breakfast and lunch).

I pulled on gym clothes and jogged around the neighborhood in early morning white-gold sun, heat already beginning to swelter, letting my thoughts ease with the joyful pounding of my heart. By the time I got back, a small measure of sanity had crept back into my panting skull.

I sponged my sweaty face with a clean towel and drank some orange juice. Stepped into the shower and let the warm water lift my spirits with clouds of steam. Mom had some kind of grapefruit-ginger body wash in the shower, and it smelled heavenly.

I dried my hair with an ancient hair dryer. Put in a pretty barrette. Took my time putting on makeup and donning a fresh little sundress and sandals.

Poured the last of the orange juice, and then dug in the fridge to see what I could eat for breakfast. The milk was gone. I could make a turkey sandwich, I suppose, or …

I opened the cabinet and shook the box of grits.

I can’t believe I’ve stooped to making grits. What if they’ve been

soaked in lye, too? And just what is a “grit”?

Still. I was hungry. I read the directions on the side of the box, poured the water and salt, and added the grits. Pushed the button on the microwave, waited, and stirred. Suspiciously sniffed the scent of corn.

Added some butter and some more salt. Shook in a few drops of hot sauce. Tasted. Grated a handful of cheddar cheese. Stirred. Nuked. Tasted again.

Okay. I took another bite. This I can at least eat.

Feeling slightly proud of myself for conquering this new cooking feat, I sat at the table and stirred my steaming grits, looking up at the one black-and-white photo of our hands I’d left on the wall. I wondered if, in some small way, Mom would be proud of me, too.

Then to my surprise, I saw the outline of a blue pickup truck through the living room sheers. Turning into my driveway.

I stood at the screen door in disbelief, bowl still in hand. And saw Adam Carter walking up to my front porch.

W
hat happened to your phone?” Adam asked a little gruffly.

I searched his face for anger but found none. No smile either.

“I guess the phone company cut it off.” I stepped out onto the porch. Surprised that Adam would still speak to me and at a second chance I didn’t deserve.

“We were worried about you. Faye said she tried to call you like a hundred times.”

We? Was Adam worried, too? Or just Faye? My heart picked up slightly in hopes that I could still repair the damage I’d done.

“Really?” I gulped, unable to meet his eyes.

“Of course. Nobody heard from you all weekend, and I know it’s not easy to stay in …” He shifted his weight uneasily and put his hands in his pockets. “In your mom’s house.”

“No.”

“But … I see you’re moving up in the world.” He gestured at my bowl. Still no smile. “Did you make them yourself?”

“The grits? Oh. Yeah. My first time.”

“Congratulations. Those are number one of the redneck food groups.”

“Oh?” I blushed, embarrassed now. “What are the … um…

others?” I stammered, not sure if he was joking.

“Biscuits, cornbread, possum, and pecan pie.”

“And collards,” I added soberly, afraid to laugh.

To my relief, he gave a slight smile. “And beer, of course, if you’re a drinker. I’m not.”

No surprise. Adam the teetotaler, in women and beer.

I took the moment to prepare my words. “Listen,” I began, clutching my bowl and spoon and looking down at the porch. “I’m really sorry about what I said. I was horrible and completely out of line. I didn’t mean any of it. I was … I don’t know. Frustrated about my life. I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.”

I looked up in disbelief, letting out the air I’d unconsciously squeezed in. “You mean … you forgive me?”

“Sure.”

“I mean it. In Japan we eat some pretty weird stuff, too. Like
natto
, which is fermented soybeans with these long strings of fermented slime still clinging to them. And then there’s jellyfish, and sea anemone like orange mush, and my friend ate horse sushi once, which means raw—”

Adam blanched and waved his hand. “No, really. You don’t have to elaborate.”

We stood there awkwardly a moment, and then Adam fingered his keys. “You busy today?”

“Me? Uh … no.” Understatement of the century.

“Then hop in the truck.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer. Just walked to the truck and got in. I wasn’t about to lose him a second time, so I grabbed my purse and keys and locked the door. Jumped awkwardly up in the truck, still holding my bowl of grits.

I hesitated before slamming the door. “You’re sure it’s … okay?” I asked meekly, glancing over at him and then out at the neighboring houses. “I’m not making fun. I’m just …”

“We’ll be in public, Shiloh,” he said shortly, looking annoyed.

“Oh. Okay.” I pulled the heavy door shut and clipped in my seat belt as he backed out of the driveway.

Neither of us spoke.

“Did you water your roses?” he finally asked, turning at the stop sign.

“No. It rained yesterday though.”

“How much?”

I stared at him. “I don’t know. Rain.”

“You’d better do it when you get home then. They looked a little dry last time I checked. Roses need a lot of water.”

Leave it to Adam to fill up our empty space with Mom’s old dumb plants. But at least he was speaking—and not preaching—to me. Although I figured a sermon would come in due time, since I so obviously deserved one.

He’d probably stuck a Bible on the dash, right? Or a Billy Graham tract? No?
Hmph. He’ll find a way
.

But Adam didn’t say a word. Just turned down the same country road I’d followed on Sunday.

I ate without speaking then put my bowl on the floor. Drummed my fingers on the seat belt.

“Did I tell you I’m sorry?” I finally broke the silence. “Because I am. I felt terrible all weekend. You have no idea.”

“You told me.”

What else could I say? We passed the little country church on the right, and I didn’t have the courage to tell him I’d actually pulled in and parked.

“Do you go there?” I gestured.

“Not now, but I did years ago. Now I go to a bigger one in town that’s closer to home. My parents go to a different one—a really good one. But I prefer mine.” “Oh.”

No questions about my churchgoing habits. No invitations or urgings to go. Just … nothing.

I didn’t know what else to talk about. I felt like a child, chattering away, and stayed quiet like Adam. I sneaked a peek at him, still feeling guilty, and found his face far away, with no trace of emotion whatsoever.

The pastures were lined with rustic fences and white Queen Anne’s lace, and we meandered out toward the mountains. Away from the city.

As the outskirts of Churchville faded behind me, my eyes practically ached from green, green, green forever—rich and brilliant—as if the rain had saturated the hillsides with vitamins. Lush pastoral landscapes, interspersed with occasional houses and blue mountains jutting through the trees, always morphing and changing shape. The hum of the truck soothed me.

I put my window down like Adam’s and inhaled the clean and heady mixture of fresh-mown grass, damp leaves, and clean, pine-scented air swept in from the mountains.

We passed a field full of bright white grasses glowing in the morning sun like opal fire. Pines jutting into slate-blue hills. Red barns and silos. A turquoise sky shouting overhead.

Cows everywhere, in black-and-white patchwork. Swallows swooped in open sky, over waving fields of shining corn. Wooded bends with large, ancient trees, their arms loaded with swaying, glittering leaves. Fairy-tale-green moss carpeting creek banks. I lost myself in the dizzy color, forgetting where we were.

“Are we in Staunton anymore?” I asked cautiously.

“Not really.”

“Don’t you have to work today?”

“I should.”

I rested my hand across my mouth and leaned against the door, feeling—with relief—like we were a hundred miles from Staunton, from anywhere. As we passed occasional cars on the road, people lifted one or two fingers lazily, buddy-like, and waved.

“Do you know them?”

“Nah.” Adam lifted two fingers from the steering wheel in reply.

I stared out at an apple-green field and a weathered-looking man on a tractor. He tipped his hat as we went by, and I waved back.

The field widened, and there were fluffy, whitish cotton balls strewn across the grass. “What are those?” I gasped.

“Haven’t you ever seen sheep before?”

“Not in … uh … person. They’re in a bunch. A herd. Whatever you call them.” I pressed my nose to the glass like a child, and Adam slowed. Idled the truck.

“A flock. Go on. Get out and take a look.”

I hopped out of the truck and stepped over tall grass in my dress. Then stood by the fence while a gentle breeze ruffled my hair, watching the sheep wander and munch. They were soft and woolly, docile-looking, with black faces and perpendicular, black, floppy ears. Little fluff-ball babies frolicked nearby, fat and clumsy, watching me.

At my feet a brilliant puddle of golden dandelions spread out in all directions. I picked one, nuzzling my chin with it while a baby sheep—sheeplet?—bleated in my direction.

I climbed back in the truck and clumsily slammed the door. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

I still held my dandelion. We continued down the road in silence. But peaceful silence. He kept his gaze, which had turned soft and pleasant, even wistful, on the road. Pushed P
LAY
on his CD player.

The music that began to flow—I say “flow” because it did, liquid-like and ethereal—rose up beautiful, emotional, unearthly. I’d never heard anything like it. The voices and gritty guitar chords were solid and real, but it had a sort of sunshiny feel that made it glow.

“What’s this music?”

“This? Tomorrow.” He didn’t move his eyes from the road. Green and bright sun splotches from leaves reflected in them. “What’s Tomorrow? A band?” He smiled briefly. “You’ve been away that long?” “Guess so.”

“They’re a Christian band from Britain. They sing praise and worship music.”

Now I get it. The otherworldliness of it all. I listened in awe as the guitar faded and the voices fell and then crescendoed, sounding like something from a choir, yet raw and U2-esque, skillful enough to play on any radio station. I thought Christian music was all stodgy stuff on pipe organs.

I heard snatches of words:
mercy, God, love, light, glory, forever, forever, forever
… Just like the blue and green sliding past the window, all colored by brilliant sun that dazzled my eyes. The most peaceful thing I’d ever heard.