Heat

The temperature in the Sacramento River Delta had been over a hundred degrees for 12 days in a row, and the nights hadn’t been much cooler. Brown fruit, decaying fish and black earth filled the hot, still August air with rancid odors. It was as if each day was rolled up into a soggy woolen blanket and hung for a few hours in the night sky, to be let down the next morning heavier and smellier than before. There was no escaping the fierce heat, and in the afternoons when it was hottest, Tora Hayashi could actually see the atmosphere of it, the waves of phantom flames dancing across the roof of the cramped, four-room, half-log, half-frame house.

The house was old, the color of dried bones. The paint had worn off long before 1910, the year Tora and her husband had moved in. The secondhand furniture inside was shabby and faded. Peat dust spewed through the well-worn slabs at times, clumping on the baseboards and settling into cupboards and closets. Tora had been feeling sluggish all day and had dozed off in the broken-down rocking chair while nursing the baby. A man’s voice at the back door startled her awake. A sharp pain streaked through her right breast. Such a greedy drinker, she thought, pulling the baby’s head out of her blouse as she beat her shoulder with the heel of her palm to loosen the stiffness. Squinting up at the dark outline of a man in a straw hat who hunched in the doorway with one hand raised above his head and the other framed around his eyes, she sensed him catch sight of her. In the crisscross of mesh she couldn’t make out the expression on his face, but all at once she had the suspicion that he was peering at her open bodice. Instinctively, she lowered the gauze over the baby’s face and covered her exposed breast.

“Who is it?” she called out, surprised by the edge in her voice. The angle of the man’s rounded body in the half-open kitchen door, with the blazing light streaming out around him, reminded her of the plum sapling, bent from the scorching rays of the sun, just outside the bedroom window. She had brought the seed from Japan and had planted it when she was first married. Its once tender leaves were now shriveled into brown balls along the lower branches, and near the stunted top, one spindly limb stretched out. To Tora, it looked to be shaking its fist at the sun. Shifting low in the rocker, she ignored the sharp jabs from the broken spindles and moved the baby into a sitting position on her lap. How she disliked that chair. If only she could lay on soft tatami again! She waved the thought away, knowing it would only take root in her mind and fester if she let it, knowing it was useless to call up anything that reminded her of Japan.

“Is this the Hayashi place?” the man repeated, pausing between each word as if the moisture-charged heat of his new surroundings somehow intoxicated him.

“Yes, just a moment, please.” Swiftly buttoning her blouse, Tora ducked into the small bedroom off the kitchen and lowered the baby into his crib. She had a clear view of the man through a chink in the log portion of the wall that divided the two rooms. He waited on the top step, a slender, boyish-looking man about her age, no more than 27 or 28. She watched him take off his hat and nod stoically, fanning himself around the face.

“My name is Hara. Mr. Kami asked me to come and see you.” The mention of Kami immediately put Tora on guard. She waited a moment, expecting him to continue, and when he fell silent she wondered what to do. As a rule she didn’t invite people inside when she was alone with the baby, and although this man Hara looked harmless enough, he was still a stranger. If her husband had been home, chances are he would have asked the man to come in, a small courtesy he often extended to fellow countrymen passing through their area.

“I’m sorry to have to disturb you like this, but it will only take a moment.” Reassured by the tone of obeisance in his voice, she probed tentatively, “What did Mr. Kami have to say?”

Hara did not answer. He rubbed a handkerchief across his forehead, folded it and wiped the back of his neck. His silence made Tora even more fearful about the reason for his visit. Tying on a bib apron, she squatted beside the crib, made faces and crooned. She turned the baby over on his stomach and patted him gently, letting her mind drift to the events of the summer before.

Kami had been older than most of the young bachelors following the transient life of picking and packing crops up and down the Central Valley. Everyone who came into contact with him immediately sensed that he was living far below his original station in life. There were rumors he had started up a newspaper in Vancouver but lost the business when his partner gambled it away. He didn’t socialize with the other men mostly because he was something of an outsider to the others, who had been hired as a group, and on his day off he kept to himself. On several afternoons she spied him through the foliage of the trees, sitting cross-legged under a eucalyptus, deep in reverie or writing furiously into what she assumed was a diary.

A series of brief incidents stuck in her mind. One evening in July around the Tanabata, the air was thick and sweet with the aroma of drying fish and ripe pear. She was hard at work pumping water from the well for the next morning when Kami appeared out of the darkness and offered to carry several buckets of water back to the kitchen for her. He seemed unconcerned that the other men might think less of him for doing women’s work, and as he spoke, she sensed his eyes sweeping over her. Tora was not pretty in the classic definition of the word. But in the delta islands, mostly populated by single young men, her round Japanese face and short, firm body attracted much attention. She had grown accustomed to the sidelong stares from the men, but the quality of Kami’s glance was different. It was a look full of tender yearning. No man had ever looked at her that way, not even her husband, and she felt the blood rush to her face. He would reappear every few days to offer his assistance, and each time his eyes moved over her, it felt as if he was seeing her for the first time. One night he turned to her and said matter-of-factly,

“If you weren’t married and I was 10 years younger, I’d be tempted to ask you to run away with me.”

There was nothing vulgar or suggestive in his manner.

“I’d say to you, ‘Meet me at the river, we’ll head down to Antioch and catch the 5:40 to Los Angeles and once there, we’d start to live.’ ”

Overwhelmed by an unexpected feeling of delight, she looked away.

Some three or four weeks later, the two chanced to meet in the packing shed. Kami poked his head in the doorway as she was collecting empty asparagus crates and offered to help stack them against the wall. Tora worried about appearances. She had been thinking about Kami ever since their last meeting and was concerned. The encounters at the well had not gone unnoticed. She had endured a bit of teasing from three of the men, who had followed her around, sighing loudly, wringing their hands over their hearts and moaning in unison.

“Hold still. There’s a spider on you.”

She stood silent, afraid to move as he flicked at the back of her head with a rag. After a few moments, she felt something the size of a centipede skitter across her shoulder and down her arm. She swung her arm up and down and started to jump and hop about.

“Get it off of me! Get that thing off of me!”

In a blur, she saw a flash of white and heard the snap of the rag. She began spinning faster and faster and as she made a sharp turn she was caught up and lifted from the ground. Kami grasped her arms tightly.

“It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s gone now.”

He set her down slowly and seated her on an upright crate. After a time, he pulled out a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped her face. Then reaching behind her, he softly brushed the back of her head and patted her neck and arm. Tora did not resist him. She simply yielded to the comfort of his touch and waited for her body to stop trembling.

“What was it?”

“A black widow.”

She nodded. “I had a feeling.”

They stared at each other. When he spread his arms, she moved into them. She lay her head against his chest and felt his breath on her neck. As he lifted the hem of her blue calico dress, she raised her hips to receive him.

A short time later they heard voices coming from the direction of the pear orchard, so they hurriedly dressed and finished stacking the crates together in silence. When he left the packing shed he promised to come back and check for nests. She thanked him with a bow.

To her deep distress some of the older men seemed to sense what had happened between them and decided to drive a wedge between Tora and Kami. Suddenly there were eyes watching her every move and she began to feel like a prisoner in her own home. There were rumors, talk that Kami was slow. Lazy. Too old. A leftist. Then one day, he was gone. He left without saying goodby. The men, emboldened by their victory, loudly speculated in front of her on Kami’s lineage and claims of political exile. Tora was angry at the men for shunning and driving Kami away and sorry she had not had the courage to defend him. Her husband seemed not to have noticed anything. She knew that he must have suspected, but he never spoke directly to her about Kami and she was grateful that he never brought it up.

Now crossing back into the kitchen she could hear the sound of her slippers slapping the back of her heels and glimpsed her dark complexion and thick lips reflected on the steel rim of the soap dish. Disgusted, she looked quickly away. The mention of Kami and the unexpected presence of the man standing at the back door strangely disoriented her. Tora gathered herself and stepped to the screen door.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Hara tapped the hat against his leg and his rail-thin body slumped slightly, betraying an air of sadness.

“I apologize for not writing you before coming to call, but I happened to be in the vicinity, so I took the chance of stopping by.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other foot and brushed the hair out of his face with his hand.

“Mr. Kami died six months ago from a swelling in the brain,” he said quietly. “He spoke of you often and wanted you to have this.”

Hara tugged at a bundle under his arm and ceremoniously pulled an envelope from under the cloth wrapping. Tora opened the screen door, took the envelope and thanked him. Avoiding her eyes, he coughed nervously and looked down at his feet. She sensed he had another request but wasn’t sure if it was his place to ask. Tora thought it best that she take the initiative and turn him down nicely but firmly. It was probably best not to have anyone associated with Kami working at the farm.

“I appreciate you coming all this way but I’m afraid harvest season is almost over. Perhaps you can try again next year.”

He nodded emphatically.

“Thank you, but I already have a position with the Mission.”

“Oh, are you a minister?”

“Someday I hope to be.”

He smiled sheepishly.

“I see.”

“Is it all right with you if I clean up a bit?”

He rubbed his hands together and mimed washing his face. There was something gentle, almost shy, about his manner and it disarmed her.

“Of course, of course. Please help yourself. Use the water in the barrel next to the well.” Tora pointed a few yards away east of the house. “If you need a washbasin, it’s on top of the cover and extra facecloths are on the clothesline. They should be dry by now. Can I offer you something to drink?”

Hara blinked.

“Thank you, but there’s a boat waiting for me at the landing.”

“Then please help yourself to some fruit. We have pears, lemons, peaches.”

Tora smiled firmly.

“That’s very kind of you. Thank you very much.”

Tora couldn’t help feeling that there was something else on his mind. She waited until he clicked down the steps before turning the envelope over in her hand. It was addressed to her. Inside, there were two sheets of heavy white paper folded in thirds, and neatly folded in the first was a sheet of seaweed with some money inside. Tora counted six $50 bills. Bewildered, she examined the front and back of each bill, carefully noting the engraving of the man with a bow tie on the front and the man, woman and train on the back. How did Kami acquire such a large sum of money? Why was he giving it to her? How was she going to explain this to her husband? She unfolded the letter. It was written in ink with a fountain pen. The handwriting was shaky and veered to the left, making the columns of kanji look like the leaning towers of Pisa she had once seen in a postcard. Despite the sloppy appearance, it was apparent that a great deal of thought and care had gone into the letter.

December 29th

Dear Tora,

The new year is just a few days away and I imagine at this moment that you are very busy with all of the preparations. I often think of the eucalyptus grove near your house and of the sounds of the bark peeling and dropping. I spent many quiet hours there and it gave me great comfort. I will make this as brief as possible. I am deeply sorry that I was the cause of so much trouble for you last summer. I am most grateful to you for your good humor and indulgence in my moment of weakness. My life has had its ups and downs, and for some time now it has been on a downhill slide. You brightened it with your kindness. In appreciation I want to leave you a little token of my thanks. I suppose an explanation is necessary. After many years an old debt I had given up on was finally repaid to me. I thought perhaps you might be able to put some of it to good use. I hope you will not be offended that I’ve chosen to leave it in your care and not your husband’s. To be honest, I was afraid of what he might think and that worried me. I think you understand. Please do with it what you wish. Take care of yourselves. Mr. Hara has agreed to personally deliver this letter to you after I’ve gone.

Sincerely,

Kami Yukio

Tori reread the letter, reflected a few moments and decided that sentiment would be the ruin of her. The letter would be the only keepsake she would have of Kami, but she knew if her husband found it there would be consequences. Before she had time to change her mind, she opened up the firebox of the cast iron stove and wedged the letter into the coals. She waited for the paper to catch fire and watched it curl and burn until it was reduced to ash. Stuffing the money back into the envelope, she pulled out the tea chest stored under the baby’s crib, opened the lid, and shoved the packet deep into the sleeves of a silk kimono decorated with plum blossoms. The money would be safest there.

The baby stirred and suckled the air noisily. As if on cue Tora felt the milk begin flowing. She gazed at her son, the small chest rising and falling, and thought that he resembled an ancient balding monk. His hair had fallen out and grown back in uneven patches, forming a wispy halo from ear to ear. The baby opened his arms and smiled up at her. She recognized the shape of the arms and she knew the smile. In that instant she understood what she would do with the money. She picked the baby up and cradled him in her arms and paced from room to room, talking to him softly about his future. He watched her face as if he understood the meaning of her words. Just then she heard a tapping on the glass, and thinking it might be Mr. Hara, she lifted the curtain. A branch from the young plum tree was hooked on the window frame. There was no sign of Mr. Hara.

She leaned against the window, closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. Then she began to cry. The baby nuzzled his head on her shoulder as if to comfort her. Much later, she wiped her eyes with the hem of her apron and noticed for the first time a row of hard green buds beginning to form on the lowest branch of the plum tree.