The Sun Gods (11 page)

“How long has
this
been going on?!” Tom's voice boomed in the little bathroom. Billy blinked and dropped his boat onto the floor, snapping its mast. “Get out of there
now
!”

Billy clung to Mitsuko, wailing and pressing his head between her breasts. “Mommy! Mommy!” he cried. “No spanking! Mommy!”

Tom grabbed Billy by the arm and yanked him away from Mitsuko. “She's not your Mommy. Never call her that again!” He looked at Mitsuko. “Never let him call you that! I won't have it! Do you hear me? You're not his mother.”

Billy's piercing scream echoed off the hard bathroom walls. Tom dropped the boy onto the rug and stalked out, slamming the door behind him. After a while, Billy's crying subsided, and Tom heard Mitsuko lead him from the bathroom and put him to bed. Tom himself prepared for bed while the soft tones of the lullaby insinuated themselves through the dark apartment, and he had been under the covers for a few minutes when Mitsuko came in.

She looked grave and slightly comical with her hair still wrapped in the towel, but the glow of the hot bath could still be discerned on her cheeks, and the V at the neck of her robe was a deep, warm pink.

Standing by the bed, she bowed slightly and said, “I am sorry.”

Tom did not speak.

“I know I am not his mother—”

“No, you're not, are you?”

“But I love him like a mother.”

“I won't have it,” he said.

“Please, Tom—”

“He used to call you Mitsu, and he can learn to call you Mitsu again. His mother's name is Sarah, and she is dead.”

“I will not hide that from him. When he is older—”

“Older? How old will he have to be? When he's too old to take baths with? How old is that? Five? Ten? Twenty-one? You are a Christian wife, and you must learn to behave like one! It has been almost a year now, and I see no change.”

“Why should I change? I have done nothing to offend God.”

“My Lord, listen to the woman! I am a Christian minister, a Christian American, and I must have a wife who understands that. For one thing, you must not flaunt your naked flesh, not to me, and not to Billy.”

“But—”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“It is not Christian. It is not American.”

“I am not American.”

He glared at her. “Are you proud of that? Are you boasting that you are not American? Do you want to bow down to that emperor of yours and sing the praises of his ‘sacred' troops?”

“No,” she said firmly. “I hate the Army.”

“And the emperor?”

She paused. “I do not hate the emperor. But I no longer bow to him.”

Tom gave a sour smile. “We have to work on making you more American,” he said, his voice softening. “You can't apply for citizenship yet. Maybe we can start with your name.”

“What do you mean?”

“We can change your name,” he said, “or give you a new one.”

“I do not want to change my name.”

“Why not? What's so special about it? You're always complaining that Americans never pronounce it correctly. Does it mean something?”

“Not exactly. Mitsu is
hikaru
—to shine.”

“What do you mean, ‘Mitsu is
hikaru
'? Mitsu is Mitsu.”

“It is very difficult to explain. But I do not want to change my name. It is the one I was born with.”

“Far more important is that you must take Our Lord wholly into your heart and admit no other.”

“But I
do
admit no other.”

“Not the sun? Not the Japanese sun god? I've seen you praying to it in the morning.”

“That is different,” she said. “I do not pray to the sun as I pray to Lord Jesus.”

“Then you admit you do pray to it?”

“No. I only ask it to shine on us and make the day good.”

“What is that if not praying?”

“It is different,” she insisted. “It is very difficult to explain.”

“Everything is ‘very difficult to explain.' Mitsuko, do you understand what I am trying to say?”

“You want me to be a better Christian wife.”

“Yes, it's as simple as that. Shall we work at it?”

She nodded, smiling weakly.

Slipping out of bed, he opened a bureau drawer and handed her a pair of his pajamas. “Wear these until we can get you some of your own.”

She took them, not entirely able to suppress a smile, and went to the bathroom to change. By the time she walked back into the bedroom, she was giggling. She had the sleeves rolled up to wrist length, and the pant legs rolled to keep them from dragging on the floor, but the excess cloth could have held another two or three Mitsukos without strain.

“All right,” Tom said with a sardonic smile. “You do look funny, but I'm absolutely serious about this.”

Determined to resist temptation, he kissed her on the forehead and wished her a good night. Her “good night” to him could not disguise the tenderness of her feelings for her husband, but she pronounced the words solemnly and lay down with her hands close by her sides.

Tom was very pleased with the civility, and his mind filled with the image of those five hundred young people in the audience today, the reds, yellows, and browns of their hair color promising to decorate his dreams like a Christmas tree.

His eyes opened to the deep darkness of night. Aside from the sound of his own pounding heart, he heard only the gentle whish of Mitsuko's regular breathing. He felt as if he were lying in bed with an oven. But what woke him was the pain of his erection thrusting up against the heavy blankets. He pushed the covers aside to relieve the pressure, but his body was still on fire, and the tension between his thighs seemed only to increase. He half believed he could see Mitsuko's naked breasts in the darkness, rising and falling with each breath. He reached out and felt the reassuring coolness of cotton, but his fingertips grazed the upthrusting nipple beneath, and a shock ran through his body.

No. He would not let her do this to him. He lay there as still as possible, but the chill of his perspiration began to make him shiver.

“Mitsuko,” he whispered.

The sound of her continued steady breathing brought him escape from his humiliation even as it signaled to him that his agony would not be soothed.

God, help me
, he prayed silently, but the more he concentrated on the source of his physical discomfort, the more stubbornly it persisted.

He brought his hand down to the throbbing organ and began to stroke it. Mitsuko shifted in her sleep. What if she awoke and found him in the midst of this perversion? And what would he do with the fluid when he came to his climax? What would she think when she laundered his pajamas and the sheets that he had fouled?

Feeling like a miserable prowler, the Reverend Thomas Morton crept from his bedroom and spent a short but critical interval of the night standing spread-legged before the bathroom sink.
9 6

PART THREE:

1959

12

HIS FATHER'S SIN.
It was all that Bill could think of as he found his way out of the church where the Reverend Thomas Morton presided as the spokesman of God. The woman named Mitsu had been the object of that sin, or perhaps the cause.

But he found that impossible to believe. The shadow she cast deep within his soul gave him only comfort, warmth and tenderness. The distant reverberations of her goodness reached him the day he entered Maneki, and before the week was out he found himself drawn there twice again.

Back at Cascade-Pacific on Friday, he found Clare in the cafeteria eating dinner with her friends. She smiled at him wearily and excused herself, following him with her tray to an unoccupied table in the corner.

“Do we still have a date tomorrow night?” he asked.

“I don't know. Do you have time for me?”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I know I've been acting strangely.”

“That's an understatement!”

“But I do love you, Clare.”

He reached across the table for her hand. She turned her palm up to his and clasped his hand warmly. For a long, silent time, they looked into each other's eyes.

“I have something to tell you tomorrow night,” he said.

Her brows twitched. “I'm not going to like it, am I?”

“I don't think you will.”

She squeezed his hand. “You're going to leave me.”

“It's nothing like that. It's just that I've been thinking about our future.” She sat back in her chair, yanking her hand from his. “Why don't you just break off our engagement and get it over with?” Heads turned in their direction. She glanced up and flushed.

“Can we continue this tomorrow night?” he whispered.

“What's the point?” she said, lowering her voice. “I've got the message.”

“No, you haven't got the message at all, damn it! Please, calm down and I'll come for you at 7:30 tomorrow.”

Bill was nervously straightening the knot of his tie when Clare floated through the lobby door in a sleeveless, pale yellow, flowing dress of a silky fabric that clung and moved alluringly. Her hair was down, falling to her shoulders in billowy cascades, and she beamed at him as if in an unabashed declaration of love. In high heels, she was nearly as tall as Bill. He stood there, stunned. It was as if all the strains of the past week had vanished.

“What's wrong?” she chirped playfully, her blue eyes glowing.

“You look lovely,” he murmured, taking her hand.

“Is that so unusual?”

“I wasn't even sure you'd be here.”

She smiled, bringing her face close for a kiss.

He planted a warm kiss on her lips and they went out to his car. As Clare snuggled up against him, he asked, “Where would you like to go?”

“To Ballard,” she said without hesitation.

“Your home? I wasn't exactly planning to spend the evening with your parents.”

“Just for a little while,” she cooed.

The Korvald house was dark when they pulled up to it a few minutes later.

“So much for an evening with the folks,” said Bill.

“Let's go in anyway. I'm sure they'll be back soon.”

Bill expected the warm, slightly fishy smell that always lingered in his future in-laws' house, but today the air was merely stuffy. Clare went around switching on lights and opening windows. The place always struck him as the site of a battle against homesickness, its walls covered with large photographs of dramatic green mountains and sparkling fjords. Next to a modest cross over the mantelpiece hung, almost as if in competition, the blue-on-white cross on the red rectangle of the Norwegian flag. An old framed photo stood on the end table by the blue sofa, showing Mr. and Mrs. Korvald in traditional wedding dress, staring stiffly into the camera, the bride with a wide, flat crown on her head from which hung clusters of metal flowers. Clare had once shown him another photo of the couple. In it, the groom, smiling broadly, was holding a cup carved in the shape of a Viking ship, and his new wife, still in her crown, was drinking from it. This picture was kept in an album and never displayed, Clare explained, because the cup contained beer that had been brewed especially for the wedding ceremony, and her mother did not want to be seen drinking beer.

Bill let himself sink into the deep cushions of the sofa and listened to Clare moving about in the kitchen. By the lamp on the end table stood a balsa-wood model of a B-47. Mr. Korvald had probably made it himself. Boeing employees were nothing if not loyal to the company.

Clare appeared with a tray and set it before him on the coffee table. When he saw the two long-stemmed glasses flanking a plate of cheese, Bill exclaimed, “Not you, too, Clare! It's bad enough your father makes me drink that stuff.”

“No one is allowed to leave the Korvald home without having tasted aquavit.”

“You mean kerosene.”

“Didn't your mother ever tell you it's not polite to refuse what you're offered? Drink up.”

“Oh, come on, Clare, you don't like this stuff any more than I do.”

She put her fists on her hips and stood over him, tapping one foot like an exasperated mother.

“This is crazy,” he said, taking his glass and waiting for her to take hers.

She sat down beside him and grasped the fluted stem in her fingertips, raising the sparkling glass to him.

“Skoal,” she said as they touched glasses. A bright flash of red passed through the inverted cone of clear liquid atop the stem, the smile on Clare's painted lips momentarily twisted into a gaping grin.

“Skoal,” he replied halfheartedly. He took a sip and felt a jolt as the fiery concoction tore down his throat. The warmth spread immediately and the caraway-scented fumes filled his lungs.

“Now,” she said, smiling demurely, “What are these new thoughts you have about our future?”

“I've decided I want our missionary work to be in Japan, not Norway,” he said without hesitation.

“You sound very definite.”

“I am very definite.”

“Without a word to me?”

Clare slowly twirled the stem of the aquavit glass in her fingers, peering down into the little puddle remaining in the cup. Then she set her glass on the tray, and he set his next to it.

“Bill, what's happening to us? We used to talk over everything, and now, all of a sudden, you're acting like—well, like my father! He tells my mother what they're going to do
after
he's made all the decisions. He never even asked her if she wanted to leave Norway.”

“I don't mean to be like that. It's just that …”

“What?” she cried. “What is it that's been eating you up so? Why don't you talk to me anymore?”

She reached for his hand and, trying to smile for her, he let her take it.

“I love you, Bill,” she said. “I don't want to lose you.” She rose up and threw herself against him. “Kiss me. Please kiss me.”

His arms closed around her strong shoulders, and she pressed her lips hard against his. “Oh, darling,” she moaned, “I'll do anything for you. Anything. I love you so much!”

Her mouth was open now, and her tongue was jabbing at his lips, trying to force its way in. She loosened his tie and sent thrills of pleasure through his body with her lips on his throat, his ears, his face. His hands moved across her back, but when they encountered the zipper there, they hesitated.

“Open it,” she urged him.

It came down so easily, and now his hands were touching her where he had always longed to touch her. He pulled at the dress from either side, and it slipped from her shoulders. She moved away from him and let it fall in front. Her breasts were thrust before him, a lacy brassiere all that separated him from them. Her eyes burned like two aquamarine coals.

Just then he heard a car outside. “My God, Clare, what if your parents come back and find us like this?”

“It's all right,” she murmured, her breath coming in small gasps. “They went to Poulsbo for the weekend.”

The truth of what was happening crashed into him with the chill of an arctic wave. How easily they had forgotten their vows to remain pure until marriage. “For God's sake, Clare. What if your parents hadn't been away? Would you have gotten me to take you to some seedy motel? Or done it in the back seat of my car?”

The look of intoxication she had been wearing changed to one of fear. She collapsed on his knees, sobbing. “I don't want to lose you,” she wailed. “I love you so much.”

He caressed her hair, trying not to look at the creamy flesh of her back and shoulders.

“No, Clare, this is not the way.”

As his own surging passion cooled, Clare's sobbing began to abate, and he gently lifted her from his lap, helping her to slip her arms into her dress. She let him raise the zipper, and then, without a word, she stood and left the room, walking unsteadily on high heels.

A door closed, and water began splashing in the sink. He stood and smoothed his rumpled clothing, straightening his tie and shaking his hair into place. The bathroom door clicked open and the sound of footsteps approached the living room, but Clare remained hidden in the hallway, only the yellow hem of her dress showing past the edge of the door.

She tried to speak, but her voice caught until she had cleared her throat. “Please go.”

“At least let me take you back to the dorm,” he said to the door frame.

“Please, Bill, just go!”

“Can I call you tomorrow? We have so much to talk about.”

“Not anymore.”

He knew she was right. Things would never be the same. Drained, he got into his car and headed automatically for the Ballard Bridge. But returning alone to the dormitory was more than he could bear at the moment, and instead of turning onto Nickerson he continued down 15th past the billboards and factories, the armory and the railroad switchyard.

He followed the road to the waterfront and drifted past the dark, hulking warehouses on Alaskan Way, catching glimpses between them of Elliott Bay off to the right, the lights of Duwamish Head glancing across the water's shimmering surface. The car's open window scooped in the salt air, heavy with the medicinal smell of creosote from the piers. He passed under the arching footbridge at Marion Street by the ferry terminal and momentarily toyed with the idea of driving onto Colman Dock for a slow boat trip across the dark waters of the Sound.

The floodlighted white peak of Smith Tower suddenly loomed into view above and to the left. It looked strangely unfamiliar until he realized that he had become accustomed lately to seeing it from the Chinatown side. As he watched it from below, it seemed to fill the night with a huge image of Maneki's white cat, beckoning to him simultaneously from a mysterious past and an unknown future.