Waiting for Sunday

chapter 16 - memories with teeth

He said he can't help them, and that's true. He can't. This is an investigation, only for his own sake.

Nao's investigation begins at a house forty minutes from his farm, the roof low and flat as if sinking beneath the weight of the dull morning fog. The yard is overgrown, patches of grass made permanently yellow from dog piss, and miniature metal windmill spins slowly from its place next to the flower beds. Morning glories tumble from the cracking windowsill to the cobblestones below, a blue so vibrant they almost look painted. It's the only splash of color, really. The brick exterior is grayish, like he's fallen into a black-and-white photo.

He hates this place. He hates the person who lives here. He considers turning around.

He doesn't.

Nao tightens his grip on the six pack of beer in his hand and climbs the ramp up to the porch, pretending not to hear something that shouldn't be there skitter away beneath his foot. He knocks on the plastic storm door, five aggressive times. "It's Nao."

Maybe I'll get lucky and she won't be there. Except Nao has long since lost all his luck.

The lock clicks and the knob squeals as a woman in a wheelchair pulls open the main door. She's well into her sixties, but looks much younger, her brown skin even and energized, only a few threads of gray peppered into her tightly-coiled reddish brown hair. It is her eyes that give away her age, wary and yet all-knowing, a glare in them that could be hatred or exhaustion, or a mix of both.

"You usually call," she says in a low drawl.

"I was in the area."

"Bullshit. Why are you here, Kamiya?"

She spits out the name like it tastes of pure salt. He supposes he can't blame her for that.

Nao holds up the six pack. "I wanna talk, Harriet," he says, "and I don't wanna drink alone."

She looks him up and down as if considering if she could take him in a fight. She sighs.

"Misery loves company," Harriet mumbles, mostly to herself. She clicks the storm door unlocked, swivels around to head back inside the house. "Better make it fucking quick."

Harriet's house reminds Nao of one of those low budget museums off the side of the interstate in the middle of nowhere: a collection of tiny knickknacks from wherever and whenever, arranged with no particular organization. There are shelves and shelves full of snow globes and smooth stone pendants and clay figures, hand-painted pottery and fine china, a taxidermied fox whose eyes seem to follow Nao as he trails Harriet into her kitchen. The hallways are narrow, but the air within them is heavy, smelling of woodsmoke and sage.

Nao sets the drinks down in the center of Harriet's small dining table, just beside her lace table runner. The crusty white dog dozing in its bed in the corner opens one rheumy eye. "You got a bottle opener?"

She takes one from a drawer and tosses it at him. "So. To what do I owe this grand pleasure?"

"I need a favor." The cap falls from the beer bottle with a clink, and Nao catches it in his palm.

Harriet's eyes flash with annoyance. "Like I owe you shit."

"You ain't gotta do shit, Harriet, just talk to me," Nao says, handing her the bottle. "You think I'm an idiot? I know better than to ask you for nothing."

Harriet takes a long swig from the bottle's mouth, her tone almost more caustic than the alcohol. "I don't even know why I still let you in my house after what Shiori did to me—"

"You were my mother's closest friend. You know she loved you like a sister," Nao exhales. He's sickened by the desperation in his voice, but he can't do anything to get rid of it. "Please. Don't start this again."