A Gesture Life Page 5

  But Mary Burns, somehow, decided to breach that peace with me. I was planting pachysandra in fresh beds beside the driveway, when I heard someone say, “Do you always work so hard?”

  I turned around and saw a woman in faded red slacks and a sleeveless white blouse, a white velvety band holding back her sliver-streaked flaxen hair. She stood where the drive met the street. She wore delicate suede loafers and no socks, and I recall noting the differences in skin tone between her arms and shoulders and neck, and the narrow white shock of her ankles.

  “You’ve been working all weekend, I know,” she said, her hands locked behind her in an almost girlish pose. “And last weekend, too. Never anybody to help.”

  I stood up and brushed the moist sod from my knees. For the last few weekends, I’d been digging up the grass along the driveway, turning it over, breaking it down, and was only now planting. I recognized her face, but of course I didn’t know who she was, and when she introduced herself by saying we were neighbors, I was immediately ashamed. I fumbled with my work gloves to shake her hand.

  “Will you allow me to learn your name?” she asked with mirth.

  “I’m very sorry,” I said, feeling completely disheveled. “I am Franklin Hata.”

  “You’re the doctor,” she said knowingly, releasing her firm handshake.

  “No, I’m not,” I told her. “People call me Doc, but I’m not a physician. I own the medical supply store in the village. Many years ago some customers and other merchants got to calling me that, and somehow it stuck. I wish sometimes it wasn’t so, but nobody seems to want to call me Franklin. I don’t mind, but I would never wish to mislead anyone.”

  “You’re not a doctor?” she said, still somewhat confused. She had stepped onto the grass of the front lawn, right onto the property. She was casually surveying the house, which at that point appeared, at least on view from the street, to have been totally refurbished. “You know, I would have thought you were a doctor anyway.”

  “Many doctors live in this neighborhood.”

  “Yes, they do,” she answered ruefully. “Many, many doctors. I used to know most all of them. Since my children left home, I don’t know them anymore, especially the younger ones. My husband was a doctor. He’s dead now.”

  “I’m sorry,” I replied. Then I said, “May I ask, was he at Deacon or County?”

  “At Deacon. He was also consulting to County, just after it opened. That’s when he died. Dr. Bradley Burns. He was a cardiologist. Actually, he was chief of the unit.”

  I told her, “I’m sorry I never met him. I don’t really meet the doctors through my business. There’s certainly no reason for them to concern themselves with people like me. He must have been very impressive, to be head of cardiology.”

  “He certainly was,” she said plainly. And then: “You could say impressive was his middle name.”

  I didn’t immediately reply, for I was somewhat surprised by her tone, which seemed without a hint of longing or pride.

  “I was saying,” she went on, “that I would have thought you were a doctor, nickname or not. You do live in a doctor’s kind of house.”

  “Perhaps, yes.”

  “But I think it’s more that you have the movements and gestures of one. I haven’t been spying on you, but I have noticed that you work like someone assured, confident, even as you put in your ground cover. You have that doctor’s way, beyond any further questioning.”

  “Lately I’ve had much practice in this field,” I said to her, toeing at the dirt.

  She liked this and laughed. “I never see people here working in their yards. It would be nice if they did. But I often see that you do, at least whenever I’m walking by.”

  “I enjoy it,” I told her, which was mostly the truth. I did find the work pleasing, basic and honest, but I didn’t have any extra money for gardeners and groundskeepers back then, and so there were compelling reasons to find myself in the yard, kneeling and digging and rooting.

  “My late husband would never do anything,” she said, her arms crossed in front of her now. “He hated both the fact and the idea of working outside. That was fine, of course. But he always tried to argue about people having a certain expertise. He was a heart doctor, and he was good at that. Others did bookkeeping well, or they made a good doughnut or French bread, or they knew how to dig a ditch. It was when you tried doing someone else’s specialty, in his opinion, that you courted real trouble. But I must admit I always thought he was just being lazy.”

  She smiled deeply, if not fondly, and she touched my arm as if to make a last, silent point. The contact surprised me. And then I realized at that moment how unusual it was that we were standing there at the head of the driveway, talking and joking and going on. In this area of expansive two- and three-acre lots, there is no such thing as gabbing over a hedge. There is too much buffer of fine landscaping and natural vegetation, of whitewashed horse fence and antiqued stone walls, that it’s rare to see anyone outside, much less two people on the perimeter of a property, talking or socializing. But you could have driven by and seen us, these two neighborhood folks on a late spring day, a man and a woman conversing with leisure and calm, and it didn’t seem that Mary Burns held any cares of being sighted, pointing down the street to her house and asking me for a tour of my front garden, doing nothing to camouflage herself or otherwise hide. Of course, why should she have? She was a widow, I a bachelor (if a father), both of us well into our middle years, and to step together among the drooping peonies was as innocent as any Sunday excursion in a botanical park. And yet I felt the burden of justification, of having a necessary reason for being with her, besides simply enjoying the newfound company.

  Which I was. As she examined the foliage and flowers on either side of the front entrance, I found myself regarding her. She was quite easy to look at, her coloring pale and soft and falling in a certain range, her light hair and her light skin and the milky, faded color of her eyes. While moving steadily through my plants, inspecting, commenting, she described her own garden and the troubles she was having with caterpillars and leaf-eating beetles, wishing aloud that her plants were as vigorous, and I suddenly realized I was trailing quite closely behind her, as if drawn in by the air of her wake. It wasn’t so much that I found her so pretty or attractive, which I would often come to hear about her from acquaintances like Renny Banerjee or the fellows at Murasan’s, for at the time I didn’t fully know how to look at a Western woman and immediately appreciate what should be beautiful and prized. They all seemed generally tall, and with narrow faces, sharp and high about the nose, which seemed to lead them all about. I know that I had my own conceptions of female comeliness, those naturally developed in the years of my young manhood. But ever since my decision to leave Japan for good, I hadn’t wished to think at length about women and intimate relations and companionship, for I knew there would be myriad difficulties ahead of me, in setting up my small bit of commerce, and other things in life. This may sound like an excuse, and perhaps even a little sad, but it’s hard for others to know how consuming one’s arrival in a new land can be, how it will take up every last resource of spirit, which too often can lead to the detriment of most everything else.

  But with Mary Burns I seemed to forget the place where I was. In the shade of the eaves, amid the fresh blooms of the lilies, a cool, tropical lilt seemed to unfold in the air. It was an almost memorial sweetness, rising beneath me like a lifting wave, as if it were intent on transporting me, sending me to a place across oceans. And for that moment I would have gladly gone there, or anywhere, for there was nothing but an immaculate calm in my heart. I wish to say this now, that it truly was a sensation of calm, and not the other thing, some pulsing, breakneck thump, a coursing furious and wild. I think it was because she seemed so perfectly at ease with me, as if our meeting was the most ordinary thing. And I the most ordinary man. She didn’t seem to speak more slowly or loudly than she might otherwise, she didn’t gaze at me too attentively, but paid as mu
ch attention as she appropriately should, all of which, at least for me, was the most unlikely kind of flattery.

  “Mr. Hata,” she said warmly. “You must have a family for this big house.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen your wife outside.”

  “No, no, you wouldn’t have,” I told her, thinking immediately that I should say something about that. But the need had not arisen, at least in such a situation, and all I could do was speak with expedience. Later on, I did remark to her on once having a wife, this many years in the past, but I made clear by my tone that it wasn’t a subject that was very pleasing to me.

  I said, “I’ve been alone for some time. But you may have seen my daughter. Sometimes she comes out with me, to garden.” My gaze naturally wandered to the far first-floor window of the study, where I thought I saw a movement behind the lace curtain.

  Mary Burns went on nodding, smiling. “How I wish my daughters would visit me more on the weekends. What’s her name?”

  “Sunny.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Hata, is she a mother or is she working? My youngest just finished her last year of college, and she’s talking about working for ten years and then having children. Don’t you think that seems awfully late to start having children?”

  “No, no,” I answered. “My daughter will be entering middle school in the fall.”

  “Middle school?”

  “Yes,” I said. “She’s eleven.”

  Mary Burns was clearly confused, for it was obvious how near in age we were, in our fifties, and I quickly realized what an awkward situation I had placed her in. So I explained, “My daughter came to me four years ago, through a Christian adoption agency. I was very lucky to get her, being without a wife, and also because I’m somewhat older than is preferred. But I was able to convince the agency of my qualifications, and now I’m a happy father.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said softly, brushing back loose ends of her wispy hair, which was fetchingly unkempt. “How wonderful for her, and for you. Truly. I sometimes wish that my children were as young as that again. What a rumpus they could cause. But it was worth every minute, as I’m sure you know.”

  “Yes. It’s been very rewarding.”

  I decided to invite her to inspect the more extensive garden behind the house, and she was plainly happy to follow me there, to walk among the perennials that I’d recently planted in what used to be a small croquet lawn, adjacent to the pool.

  She bent to smell the lavender-colored flowers of the blooming rosemary bushes, and then moved on to the other ornamental and fragrant plants, and as she did I excused myself to go into the house. When I returned, I took the pair of snips I’d retrieved from the kitchen and quickly cut a small bundle of the rosemary and thyme for her to take home, wrapping it neatly with a stripped branch. She clasped the bunch gratefully and thanked me, and though it seemed I should invite her inside for a soft drink or tea (as she herself seemed to anticipate), I remembered it was near the hour for Sunny to begin her afternoon practicing, and I feared it might be a disturbance for her to have an unfamiliar woman in the house.

  For it was around the same time that I began speaking to Sunny about the possibility of her having a mother; I suggested that with a woman living with us, perhaps she would be happier, or at least less inexplicably agitated and anxious-feeling than she was, which it seemed was becoming an increasingly everyday condition. I had aimed to learn of a suitable woman through old friends back in Japan, depending on a small network of comrades from the war for a reputable contact, but so few Japanese of good background and means wished to leave their country, especially in those boom days. My only real chance was to locate a childless widow who might consider an opportunity for motherhood reason enough to leave her homeland, and I hoped, too, that a congenial understanding and companionship would at some point arise between us, as it is never ideal for a child to sense ill-feeling between her parents. I had tried to convince Sunny of all this, for it seemed certainly wrong for a young girl to know only a single adult, especially so if it was a man, but always she was vehemently against the idea, crying and going on whenever I persisted. And though I didn’t do anything that day with Mary Burns to go against her wishes, it would be wrong to recall something other than a renewed lightness suffusing my spirit, a part of me which seemed, I was certain, to have been long ago dissipated, and lost.

  Mary Burns, I know, was also surprised by the pleasantness of our meeting. She would later say I was gentle-seeming, and charming, and “exceedingly handsome,” if I remember her words correctly. I don’t know much about this; I’ve never thought—or even thought to think—of myself in such terms. And when she was even more comfortable with me, she confided how odd a recognition it was for her, at least at first, to find herself deeply attracted to an Oriental man. She laughed at herself and said there was no reason she shouldn’t have been, that there was no good reason at all, but the feeling was there and she ought to be truthful, and whether it was shameful or not probably didn’t matter in the end.

  I agreed with her. Of course I didn’t say anything about my own particular attractions. My initial concern was about the exact nature of our relationship, what we might do, share—what might, in fact, eventually occur in the more private moments. Soon enough, my thoughts were focused on these notions, these heightened wonderings, and I fear I lost some perspective along the way for what my daughter Sunny may have needed, which was not necessarily a woman or a mother or anyone else.

  Mary Burns, I want to say now, tried her best to connect with Sunny. She made great efforts toward building a friendship, when there was no expectation for her to do so. How many afternoons did she await Sunny at the bus stop, so that they might walk home together, climb the steady hill of Mountview Street? How many evenings did she come over to the house to visit with Sunny upstairs in her room, to chat and “hang out” with her, and then later help with her homework? How many Sunday afternoons did they spend together, at the children’s hour at Mary Burns’s country club, or at Jolene’s in the village for a treat of ice cream?

  I remember when they would return from these outings, the front door creaking open, and Mary Burns would call out to say they were home. Her voice was always sprightly, aloft, but when I’d meet them in the foyer Sunny would be quickly ascending the stairs. I’d ask her if she had had fun, and she would answer, “Yes, Poppa, I did,” and then continue on her way up. I’d remind her to say thank you, but of course she had already, without fail, having made offerings to Mary Burns in the car and at the door, and she’d even curtly bow at the top of the stairs before disappearing down the hall to her room.

  Afterward, Mary Burns and I would sit in the family room or the kitchen, sharing a snack or a pot of tea I’d prepared, and though she wouldn’t say anything I could see the disappointment ever settling in the fine lines of her face, her jaw perfectly steady. There was a sheerness, the smoothest rigor to her cheek, as if it were the keen wall of a canyon. And it was in these moments, strangely enough, that I believe I found her most arresting and lovely, that she appeared to me exquisitely composed in character, her bearing deliberate and unrelenting.

  Only once did she break. After what she thought had been a particularly enjoyable day for them, full of shared gossip and even laughter, though with Sunny excusing herself as usual, Mary Burns began to cry. We were sitting on the family-room sofa. She cried very quietly, not covering her face, and at the very moment I thought she would come closer and lean on me, she rose and said she would be leaving.

  “You’re not going to stay?” I asked.

  “No, Franklin, I don’t think so.”

  “Not even for dinner?”

  “Not tonight.”

  I followed her to the foyer. “I’m sorry about Sunny,” I said. “She can be rude sometimes. I’ll speak to her.”

  “I don’t want you to do that,” she answered, her voice strained and rising. “Please, Franklin. She’s not rude. Not in any wa
y. Never have I known a girl of eleven to be as polite as she is. She’s never said an unkind word, and she’s never complained. I truly thought she was happy today, to be together with me. She seemed happy. But the second we got home, the day was over. All at once, it was over. Just like that.”

  “Did Sunny say something?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. She was perfectly fine. But it was as though she was serving her sentence with me for the afternoon hours, and when we got home, she was released. It’s not her fault. You’ve raised her impeccably. She doesn’t have to have a deep feeling for me. There’s no law.” She lifted her purse from the hall table, curling the strap over her shoulder. They had been at the club, and she was still wearing her white tennis clothes, a short pleated skirt and blouse and a light sweater.

  “I feel so unbelievably tired all of a sudden,” she said, exhaling deeply. She touched my forearm and squeezed it gently. “Let’s say good night now, Franklin, okay?”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “It’s no one’s fault. Least of all yours.”

  “Yes,” I replied, though not intending to agree. I tried to think of an explanation, a way to tell her that Sunny was in fact a good-hearted girl who would never mean to upset or offend. But already I sensed the lateness of my providing any reasons, at least for Mary Burns’s sake. For Mary Burns, it seemed, I was often too late. And the other truth was that even after several years, Sunny felt no more at home in this town, or in this house of mine, or perhaps even with me, than when she very first arrived at Kennedy Airport, accompanied by a woman from the agency. I noticed something even then. She was clutching a rough canvas bag of her things, the zipper flapping loose at one end, torn from the plain, soiled fabric. When I tried to coax it from her she crossed her small arms tightly around it, carrying it all the way to the car herself, the whole small picture of her both endearing and pathetic. She followed behind me and the woman, who was talking excitedly about the various projects the agency was developing for the benefit of Asian orphans. Whenever I looked around to acknowledge my new daughter, to try to catch her eye, she neatly tucked in her chin and pushed on, as if she were headed into a long and driving rain.