O-miai
Connor sat at his desk and stared at the Osaka Metro subway map thumbtacked to the wall, following the red line of the Midosuji down to the Nakamozu Nankai interchange. He’d gone to Sakai to get something for Nobuo. He couldn’t remember what. Elaine Packard had been standing maybe twenty meters away—he couldn’t possibly have recognized her from a single encounter. He recognized her because he slept with her, in dreams that could not be dreams.
Panic settled into his synapses like a cold, white fog. What if—what if they—what if somehow—
Moral panic permitted every possibility, entertained every extreme, and dredged up extra helpings of guilt just to make sure. Connor dug out the microcassette recorder he hadn’t used since his mission. He scavenged a pair of batteries from his MP3 player, flipped the voice activation to high, and set it on his bed stand. After he got into bed, he secured his left ankle to the bedpost with a stout piece of nylon twine. He’d never known anybody in his family to sleepwalk, but this wasn’t the time to find out.
He fell asleep thinking winter and ice—awoke to the urgent demands of their shared passions—unexpectedly feeling a tremor of fear course through her body as he—and the dream—disappeared.
In the morning, Connor climbed out of bed, took a step, and crashed to the floor, his foot nearly wrenched off. When he finally realized what had happened, the knot was seized so tightly he was reduced to groping around until he found a pair of nail clippers and released himself. He collapsed on the bed, clutching his ankle and laughing hysterically. The playback revealed the wail of a distant police siren, the yip and yowl of a cat spat on the patio, a long monologue by the next door neighbor’s German shepherd, and then a muffled expletive and the stupid thud of his body striking the floor.
His only consolation was that he didn’t snore.
Alicia was at the desk when he walked into the Writing Center. “Hey, a girl left a note for you.”
“A girl?”
“Kinda cute.” She smiled slyly. “I put it in your slot.”
Alicia leaned back against the wall as he retrieved the envelope. Mind your own business, he mouthed. “Connor McKenzie, 1010 JKHB,” was the address on the envelope. He slit the seal and pulled out a folded piece of paper. The quiz. He smiled at the grade. He turned it over. “Terrace Court,” it read. “Second floor mezzanine, above the clock. Five P.M.”
His head buzzed. Deep breath, take a deep breath. He folded the paper and tucked it back inside the envelope.
“Well?” Alicia asked.
Connor answered with a no-big-deal shrug. “When did she come by?”
“This morning around ten. I think she’s Japanese.”
He knew she was Japanese. Her handwriting betrayed that fact. Except that she was also half-American, if she was that Elaine Packard. She must have attended elementary school in Japan.
Alicia reveled in his discomfort. “This could make things interesting. You are in the pool, after all.”
“The pool? Oh, that pool.”
“Any inside tips, Connor? I’ll make it worth your while. I know for a fact that Thom and Natalie—”
He gave her a look. “There are no inside tips to give.”
Her expression said she didn’t believe him. “This definitely changes the line. I’ll have to discuss your status with Chloe.”
Connor rolled his eyes.
“I was betting on a perfect game. No engagement, no date, no marriage. Winter semester, you had me worried there for a few weeks. But I held firm. Now, though, you’re being—mysterious.”
“I am not being mysterious.”
“And evasive.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re exactly the sort of person I’d expect not to look like he was in love when he was in love.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.”
A student came in with an English 115 paper. Xiaojing stopped in an hour later with her Barron’s TOEFL workbook. That kept him busy for another hour. He found himself free at 4:45.
“Mind if I take an early break?” he asked Alicia.
“Give yourself enough time to pick up some flowers.”
Connor didn’t bother to respond.
He crossed the Quad to the Wilkinson Center and walked up the stairs to the second level mezzanine overlooking the Terrace Court. The clock hung dead center on the skirting below the west walkway. Connor paced back and forth in front of the windows and pondered what to say. Something obvious like, “Weren’t you a missionary in Osaka?”
The afternoon sun streaming through the glass made him squint. He turned around and looked across the courtyard. She was standing on the east mezzanine concourse, no farther away than the northbound platform of the Nakamozu Nankai station. She stared across the wide gulf of empty air. Whatever he did, she could escape before he could catch up with her.
This was her meeting, her o-miai. He sat down on the bench above the clock and waited. He didn’t see her again until she stopped at the railing next to him. She stood, poised, while Connor got to his feet.
Then she said, quietly, reproachfully, “You always leave.”
Connor had no idea what she meant. Yet he flushed, feeling a palpable guilt from the weight of her indictment.
She glanced away. “It was you, at the Nankai station in Nakamozu.”
“Yes.”
“We hadn’t met—or seen each other—before then?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did my uncle tell you about me?” She looked at him, an angry glare returning to her eyes.
“Did he tell me about you?” Connor echoed. “Your uncle?”
“Oh Sensei.”
He resisted whacking himself on the forehead. Of course! Nobuo was Oh Sensei’s brother. Sayaka was his sister. Sayaka Oh Packard. The pieces began to fall together—except for the big one, the iceberg mostly buried beneath dark water.
“He didn’t try to set us up?”
“Your name might have come up now and then. But not in that context. Should I have?” he queried.
“I suppose not. It’s just that my uncle—you know the way he is.”
Connor smiled and so did she. She was quite pretty. The dreams didn’t lie. But then, desperately searching for some way to continue the conversation, he made what he believed at the time was a mistake. Though later, and for the rest of his life, he knew it was not.
“What do you mean, you always leave?”
The smile vanished. Her face turned ashen. “You do,” she said, her voice suddenly hoarse with anger.
He felt her reaction like a blow to the chest. It frightened him, how much he cared about what she felt. She wasn’t filling the atmosphere with kind feelings. He said, “Do what?”
“You leave. You always leave.”
She was talking about the dream. Sweat prickled on his skin. Suddenly she closed the distance between them, creating a private, intimate space in which she could place all of her anger.
She said, articulating each word separately, “You. Leave. Me.”
Subject. Verb. Object. She could have jabbed a forefinger in his sternum, but the grammar was sufficient. He took a step back. His voice rose. “This isn’t my fault. I saw you at a train station in Nakamozu. That’s all that happened. I’m not the one causing these dreams!”
Her eyes were sharp as knives. “But you act as if you are.”
She whirled around and walked away. He didn’t follow her. Then he wished that he had.