Nan-Core (27 page)

I stepped through the entranceway and rested my hand on the front door as requested. She briefly stepped away from Dad and came over to me, quickly whispering into my ear, “Don’t worry about Chie’s negatives. I got them all back and already disposed of them.”

It came to me in a flash. In that brief moment I was back there again, the blood scattered across the window and pooled on the floor mat of Shiomi’s car vivid in my mind’s eye.

That had been Ms. Hosoya’s doing. Was it possible? There was the sharp glare she’d given me when I’d impulsively said that I would kill him. The admonishment in her voice when she told me I couldn’t think like that.

Did she, aware of my plan, kill him in order to prevent me from doing it? Or had she intended to kill him either way? Did Shiomi really ask that she bring the money? Or did she lie on the spur of the moment to stop me from getting near him?

In any case, now that she’d told me she had gotten rid of the negatives, the only conclusion I could draw was that she killed him. I suppose she lied to me about the meeting time Shiomi had given her. She must have put Chie to bed, gone to the lookout at the real hour, and arranged things so I would arrive after it was all done.

Before she took Dad’s hand again, Ms. Hosoya removed her glasses and put them in her bag. She probably didn’t wear them when they were together, or perhaps, at any other time except when she was working at the cafe.

Ms. Hosoya and Dad walked past me, practically brushing the tip of my nose. Yohei came up to my side, and when I looked his way I saw that he was weeping quietly. The car, parked just beyond the front gate, was wet from the drizzle.
I saw the familiar logo of Shaggy Head on the side, painted red, black, and yellow. It’s impossible to rent or buy a car without owning a license. This was the only car Ms. Hosoya could use. She’d probably used it on the night of the murder, too.

I wondered what she had done with Shiomi’s body. The car was usually loaded with a collapsible cart big enough to carry cages for large dogs. A woman could move something heavy around using that cart. She must have wheeled the corpse away, probably not so much to cover up the murder, but so I wouldn’t have to see the body. She would have considered the blood-filled car enough to assure me he was definitely dead. Most importantly, she would have had no choice but to leave one of the cars at the scene—Shiomi’s or the cafe’s.

“What’s this, Yohei? You’re crying again?” Dad chuckled, turning back once he got to the car.

“But this … this is crazy. You don’t even have any luggage.” It was the first time he’d spoken in a while.

“Yohei, don’t worry,” Ms. Hosoya said soothingly. “The car’s been properly packed with food, drinks, warm clothes, and memories of your mother.”

“Ha ha, indeed, memories of our loved ones make up the lion’s share of baggage. That’s the one thing we can’t leave behind even if we want to. No choice but to carry them wherever we go.”

Did she bury the body somewhere in the mountain? Or did she take it home and deal with it in a more meticulous manner—during the three days she’d taken off to make sure no one would ever find it? It seemed as though I would never get the chance to ask.

Ms. Hosoya opened the passenger door and Dad very carefully eased himself inside. I held on to Yohei so he wouldn’t run over and stop him. Could I do anything else?

“Now then, boss, Yohei, take care of yourselves.”

I knew there were things I had to say to her that would be irreparable not to, but not a single word came to mind. As I gazed at her, wishing for my eyes to communicate something of my thoughts, Ms. Hosoya broke into a smile. When she smiled, standing there with her hair growing damp in the cold rain, that phantom of my youthful mother, wearing her summer dress, her arms bare, carrying a white handbag, flickered into view.

My darling Ryosuke
.

The face of my mother—nothing more than an elusive apparition a day earlier—resolved for the first time into a distinct image, enveloping me with a tender smile. I stared back, unblinking, my mouth hanging open. I forgot to breathe.

Then Ms. Hosoya smoothly swept into the driver’s seat and closed the door behind her.

“All right. I’m trusting you boys to look after Gran,” Dad reminded, and spent a while looking at both of us in turn. Then he diverted his gaze and swung the door shut.

That was the true moment of our parting from Dad.

The car window was still rolled down, but that seemed to be the moment Dad severed all his ties. He had relinquished his final attachment to staying alive, cut off nostalgic longing for the home he had lived in for so many years, and even shed his feelings for us. In a space that contained nothing except the two of them and their memories, he was once again Ms. Hosoya’s—my mother’s—
you
.

“Now, then. Where to?” he said.

“Anywhere. Wherever you want.”

Even as the window slid shut with a quiet noise he never turned back towards us. “Let’s see. How about …”

I couldn’t hear the rest of the sentence. I could see them nodding together through the closed window, enjoying themselves. When they pulled away, a stream of white exhaust fumes trailed in the rain. The car headed down the narrow residential street and disappeared around a corner. It was gone in less than ten seconds.

Yohei was crying so hard that I put an arm around his back. We stood shoulder to shoulder for a long time, just gazing at the wet, deserted asphalt.

Mahokaru Numata was born in 1948 in Osaka, Japan, the daughter of a Buddhist priest. She married a priest, but later divorced and took holy orders herself. She went on to run her own construction consulting firm before making her literary debut in 2004 with the prize-winning novel
If September Could Last Forever
. Known for weaving strong threads of sexuality and violence into her stories, she is also recognized for her insightful explorations of such universal themes as love and hate, light and darkness, and the mysteries of human nature.