Read Online The Electrical Field by Kerri Sakamoto - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kerri Sakamoto
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rise on one side of me, and the cold swept in. It crossed the room and paused at the door, but did not turn its face to me.
There was more news Monday morning, ten lines.
Missing man bought gun.
A clerk at the Canadian Tire store remembered
an Oriental man, nervous. “I showed him how to use it,”
he said. Yano’s name, the name of the street, the neighbourhood, they rose in blotches that spread until I could read no more. I tried to envision Yano approaching the store counter, as I had seen him a hundred times come towards me after spotting me on my morning walk around the electrical field, arriving sweaty as if he’d stepped in from the rain. But his hands would be dry as he rubbed them together; I heard them, like sandpaper. I tried to imagine a gun, long and dark, notched in intricate ways, a thing I’d never seen in real life, laid across those thick, parched palms. I could not. Much less picture it held up by those hands I knew, pointed at Mr. Spears’ chest, at Chisako’s heart.
“I told you it was him,” Stum said when he came down later than usual, clucking his tongue. His face was puffy, thick with too deep sleep, too rich dreams. Another thing different.
“They’ll find those kids any day now,” he said carelessly. He pointed his finger to his head and let out a sound twice, an explosion. His mouth a gun, then a reckless smirk. Across the kitchen table I caught the spray of it like poison. I threw the paper aside and stood up.
“You!” I shouted. “Shut up!” I tasted the words, bitter, metallic. But I was crying out for Sachi, for Tam, for Yano.For myself. Stum’s face went white. He wasn’t used to his nesan like this.
“Baka!” I picked up the newspaper and swatted him like a fly. “Stupid!” I screamed. A little nothing flapping in my face. Now he was quivering with fear of his ne-san. His big cruel ne-san from years past. I’d cut him down to the little boy that he was, that he’d always be. But in an instant the newspaper I’d rolled in my hand was snatched from me. My palm burned cold-hot. He waved the paper over my head.
“You can’t treat me that way!” he seethed. “Not any more.” He backed away, throwing the paper to the floor beside me, trampling it. “I’m not your little boy, your baka-tare-bozu, not any more!”
He pointed to the table in the living room where Eiji’s photo usually sat. “Just because I’m not him!” He kept staring there. “I’m no different.” He pounded his fist on the table. “No different!”
“You’ll be late,” I said calmly. He was late, much later than usual. He stopped then, looked at me as if he might grab me and try to shake something out. But he didn’t; his body slumped, hinges loose and broken.
“All right, ne-san. All right.” He walked out, shutting the front door behind him, leaving behind his thermos of green tea and the lunch I’d packed.
It wasn’t that I believed Stum about Yano and the children, even for an instant. I wasn’t convinced that he did, himself. I’d only wanted to jolt him. I’d wanted to hurt him, that was it. Return him from the carelessness of his dreams, whatever, whoever was in them, to our life, to me. I wanted him acrossfrom me at meals, in bed at night in the room next to me; wanted to feel my fingers pressed by his on the edge of a plate as it passed to his side of the table, as if his life depended on it, as it used to.
I retrieved the newspaper from the floor, brushing off the dust of Stum’s footprints. The look of those names in print, the names of our streets. It was disturbing and yet, I had to admit, somehow thrilling. To be exposed in this way.
I took my scissors, glue, and notebook from the cabinet drawer, clipped out the article, then carefully pasted it down. Once again I wrote in the date above the clipping. Already four days since the first news. I felt the thickening ripple of pages. It was growing. I turned back to the previous clipping and looked into Yano’s
There was more news Monday morning, ten lines.
Missing man bought gun.
A clerk at the Canadian Tire store remembered
an Oriental man, nervous. “I showed him how to use it,”
he said. Yano’s name, the name of the street, the neighbourhood, they rose in blotches that spread until I could read no more. I tried to envision Yano approaching the store counter, as I had seen him a hundred times come towards me after spotting me on my morning walk around the electrical field, arriving sweaty as if he’d stepped in from the rain. But his hands would be dry as he rubbed them together; I heard them, like sandpaper. I tried to imagine a gun, long and dark, notched in intricate ways, a thing I’d never seen in real life, laid across those thick, parched palms. I could not. Much less picture it held up by those hands I knew, pointed at Mr. Spears’ chest, at Chisako’s heart.
“I told you it was him,” Stum said when he came down later than usual, clucking his tongue. His face was puffy, thick with too deep sleep, too rich dreams. Another thing different.
“They’ll find those kids any day now,” he said carelessly. He pointed his finger to his head and let out a sound twice, an explosion. His mouth a gun, then a reckless smirk. Across the kitchen table I caught the spray of it like poison. I threw the paper aside and stood up.
“You!” I shouted. “Shut up!” I tasted the words, bitter, metallic. But I was crying out for Sachi, for Tam, for Yano.For myself. Stum’s face went white. He wasn’t used to his nesan like this.
“Baka!” I picked up the newspaper and swatted him like a fly. “Stupid!” I screamed. A little nothing flapping in my face. Now he was quivering with fear of his ne-san. His big cruel ne-san from years past. I’d cut him down to the little boy that he was, that he’d always be. But in an instant the newspaper I’d rolled in my hand was snatched from me. My palm burned cold-hot. He waved the paper over my head.
“You can’t treat me that way!” he seethed. “Not any more.” He backed away, throwing the paper to the floor beside me, trampling it. “I’m not your little boy, your baka-tare-bozu, not any more!”
He pointed to the table in the living room where Eiji’s photo usually sat. “Just because I’m not him!” He kept staring there. “I’m no different.” He pounded his fist on the table. “No different!”
“You’ll be late,” I said calmly. He was late, much later than usual. He stopped then, looked at me as if he might grab me and try to shake something out. But he didn’t; his body slumped, hinges loose and broken.
“All right, ne-san. All right.” He walked out, shutting the front door behind him, leaving behind his thermos of green tea and the lunch I’d packed.
It wasn’t that I believed Stum about Yano and the children, even for an instant. I wasn’t convinced that he did, himself. I’d only wanted to jolt him. I’d wanted to hurt him, that was it. Return him from the carelessness of his dreams, whatever, whoever was in them, to our life, to me. I wanted him acrossfrom me at meals, in bed at night in the room next to me; wanted to feel my fingers pressed by his on the edge of a plate as it passed to his side of the table, as if his life depended on it, as it used to.
I retrieved the newspaper from the floor, brushing off the dust of Stum’s footprints. The look of those names in print, the names of our streets. It was disturbing and yet, I had to admit, somehow thrilling. To be exposed in this way.
I took my scissors, glue, and notebook from the cabinet drawer, clipped out the article, then carefully pasted it down. Once again I wrote in the date above the clipping. Already four days since the first news. I felt the thickening ripple of pages. It was growing. I turned back to the previous clipping and looked into Yano’s
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