East is East

He could not, would not demean himself before her again. What did he think he was doing? Did he intend to crouch forever in the bushes outside the fly-speckled window of the only Amerikajin who’d shown him a ray of kindness? What was he going to do—grow a long black beard and eat dirt all his life, live like a caveman or a hippie or something? No, he had to get to Beantown, the Big Apple, to the City of Brotherly Love; he had to blend in with the masses, find himself a job, an apartment with western furniture and Japanese appliances, with toaster ovens and end tables and deep thick woolly carpets that climbed up the walls like a surging tide. Then he’d be safe, then he could play miniature golf and eat cheeseburgers or stroll down the street with an armload of groceries and no one would blink twice. The moment he finished the second lunch, the ultimate and final lunch, he started off down the path for the blacktop road that would lead him to a distant wide sun-streaked highway and all the glorious polyglot cities of the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Behind a Wall

of Glass

“Now, saxby, I’m warnin’ you—if you get one drop of water on that furniture …”

The aquarium had been in place for less than an hour, and already Saxby was filling it from the green plastic garden hose that snaked in through the open window. The tank was too long by half a foot, and when he and Owen hadn’t been able to negotiate the tricky corner in the hallway outside his bedroom, they’d set it up on the window seat in his mother’s sitting room. He’d covered the seat itself with a double sheet of visquine, but Septima was concerned for the Hepplewhite highboy that stood to its immediate left and the three-hundred-year-old mahogany sideboard that loomed up out of the grip of the wallpaper on the right. “Hush now,” he said, reassuring her, “I wouldn’t harm one little thing in this house, you know that,” and he manipulated the hose with one hand while with the other he arranged his aquatic furniture—the rocks he’d plucked from the Carruthers’ seawall and boiled for hours in the colony’s big stewpots to discourage unwanted algal and bacterial blooms, and the long wet strands of water lily, pickerel weed, bladderwort and redroot he’d brought back with him from the Okefenokee. “Hell, I’d be throwing away my own inheritance if I did.”

“Saxby, you stop that now,” she shot back with a grin that exposed the long fossilized roots of her teeth. She loved to hear him go on about his inheritance, even if he made a joke of it—what she wanted above all, what she planned to make him swear to on her deathbed, was that he would stay on in the house after her, overseeing the colony’s operations in her stead and living a long and fruitful life in the brilliant company that would call Thanatopsis home on into the limitless future.

“Seriously, though, Mama—it’ll be beautiful when I’m done. You’ll see.”

Septima was sunk in the vastness of a chintz-covered easy chair, her feet propped up on a matching ottoman, and her book—a bookclub selection on the history of rice-paper manufacture in Wu Chan Province during the twelfth century—spread face-down in her lap. “I know it will, honey,” she said, a faint distracted quaver working its way into her voice, as if, just for a moment, age and infirmity had caught up with her, “but that highboy is priceless, simply priceless, and I remember your grandmother Lights saying—”

He turned to her in that moment, water dribbling from his fingertips, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and gave her a smile so rich it stopped her in midsentence.

“What?” she said, grinning. “What is it?”

“You,” he said. “Look at you: you’re treating me like I was six years old again—and believe me, I wouldn’t complain if you’d only go back to making me corn muffins and drizzled honey in the mornings and tucking me in at night.”

His mother said nothing, but he knew she was enjoying it, this vision of her hulking big sinewy twenty-nine-year-old son as a breathless pigeon-toed little boy who couldn’t stop eating corn muffins, who looked up into her eyes as if they contained all the answers to all the questions in the universe and followed her, step for step, through the days and weeks and months of her younger and less complicated life. After a moment he turned back to the tank, shifted the hose, adjusted the filter intake, patted a mound of gravel over the roots of the pickerelweed he’d planted in the near corner. There was the murmur of the water, the soft play of the fronds on his skin, the slow soothing pleasure of doing something, making something, of building a world with his own hands. A period of time was erased—five minutes? ten?—before he spoke again. “So how’s Ruth been keeping?” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

Septima set down her book and peered up at him over the wings of her reading glasses. Little ripples of surprise crested on the brittle white beach of her hairline. “You haven’t seen her yet?”