East is East

She brought breakfast for him the next morning, and neither of them mentioned Saxby or what had happened the night before. Not right away, at any rate. He was awake when she got there, but he seemed withdrawn, insular, wrapped up in himself like a cat, and his eyes had a dull bludgeoned look to them. The light blanket she’d given him lay balled up in one corner of the loveseat, while he was hunched at the other, dressed only in his lurid shorts—he hadn’t bothered to pull on the sweatshirt or socks. And the place smelled of him—for the first time she was aware of that, of his smell—though the odor wasn’t unpleasant, not at all. Just different. There’d been a smell of old wood about the place, of fungus and moss and earth—a smell she could only describe as “woodsy”—but he’d replaced it with his own smell. A body inhabited this place now: his body.

As she moved around the place, fussing over the coffee things, setting the table, she could feel his eyes on her. The sky was overcast, close and gray. She’d brought soft-boiled eggs, wheat toast, marmalade and fruit juice. “Are you hungry?” she said, just to make conversation. “I brought some things.” He didn’t move. After a moment he gave her the faintest nod of his head—a parody of a bow—and rose to his feet. He looked like a waif, looked young, looked angry, sullen, ungrateful. Suddenly she was furious. “What did you want me to do,” she said, “—invite him in to play checkers?”

Hiro stood there, shoulders slouched, and turned his wounded eyes on her.

“He’s my man. My lover.” They were three feet apart. The eggs were getting cold. “You understand that?”

It took him a long moment to answer. “Yes,” he said finally, in a voice so soft she could barely hear him.

“You and I,” she began, gesturing with a single emphatic finger, “you and I are”—she couldn’t seem to find the word—“friends. You understand?”

There was the dull distant throb of a woodpecker assaulting a tree, and then the whine of a chainsaw starting up somewhere. The water on the hot plate came to a boil. Yesterday’s page curled over the typewriter.

“Yes,” Hiro said. “I understand.”

The next week passed without incident.

Hiro spent his days reading the books and newspapers she brought him, rocking in the chair and watching her as she pecked away at the keyboard, scribbled notes or gazed out on the wall of green, waiting for a word or phrase to come to her. He made himself scarce at lunchtime—she didn’t know where he went and more often than not didn’t even know he’d gone, so furtive had his movements become. But he reappeared, looking hopeful, the moment Owen turned and loped off down the path. And then he went through his daily routine—it was comical, really. He bowed, he smiled, he scraped and writhed and wrung his hands and he wouldn’t touch the lunch bucket—wouldn’t even look at it—till Ruth had assured him ten times over—and reassured him again—that she wasn’t hungry, that she didn’t want it, that it was for him and him alone.

In the evenings, when she left him, he made a poor meal of the groceries she’d smuggled in for him—bread and jam, wilted lettuce, a cupful of polished white rice—and then curled up on the couch beneath the thin blanket, and, as she imagined, dreamed of the City of Brotherly Love. In the mornings, he was always waiting for her, neatly dressed in the Georgia Bulldogs sweatshirt or the madras plaid she’d borrowed from Saxby, and the cottage bore no trace of him but for his presence and the lingering faindy yeasty odor of his living and breathing. The books, the blanket and the groceries were hidden away, the floors swept, the mantel dusted, her papers and pens and pencils lovingly arranged on her desk. And there he was, her own pet, waiting for her, a toothy pure uncomplicated grin propping up his eyes and creasing the big joyful moon of his face.

At the same time, very gradually, in the way of a guerrilla band working its way down from the hills to infiltrate the provinces and finally lay siege to the capital, Ruth began to work her way back into the inner circle of Thanatopsis House. Since Jane Shine’s arrival, she’d kept a low profile—she had no choice, since she couldn’t stomach being in the same room with her. The battle lines had been drawn when Jane cut her that first night and Ruth had been left to fumble over the Iowa connection till Jane’s eyes had leaped the ski jump of her nose to settle on her as if on some insect, some legless beggar tugging at the hem of her imperial skirts, and she’d said finally, with a sigh, “Oh, yes, I think I remember you now—but wasn’t your hair a different color?” It had taken Ruth a day or two to map out her strategy—and she’d been preoccupied with Hiro, anyway—but now she moved in to do battle in earnest.