“First in Los Angeles. Later in a place called Manzanar.”
“Palm trees and beaches and always warm. I might want to live there when I’m grown up. Why did you leave?”
He was quiet, staring into his tea as though he could read the future in it. Then he said, “I was able to get work here. Work is life and meaning. Sloth is sin and death. At the end of the war, I was eighteen and needed work. I came here from California to work.”
“You mean World War Two?”
“Exactly, yes.”
I calculated. “You’re almost forty, but you don’t look old.”
Raising his stare from tea to me, he smiled. “Neither do you.”
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“It sounded honest. Honest is good.”
I was blushing again, but still black, so he couldn’t know.
“Now I am boring myself,” he said. “I must be boring you.”
I thought maybe this worry about boring me was his way of politely putting an end to our visit, and I realized that I hadn’t even raised the subject that had inspired me to bring him cookies.
Looking at the ceiling, I said, “It’s so quiet here, so peaceful. I hope the new lady in Six-C doesn’t ruin your quiet.”
“Why should she?”
“Stripping up linoleum, scraping off wallpaper …”
“Most likely she will be doing that while I am away at work.”
“Yeah, but she looks …”
He cocked his head, his black eyes as inquisitive and direct as those of a wary crow. “Yes? Looks? How does she look?”
“Noisy.”
He studied me over his raised teacup, as he tilted it and took a sip. Then he said, “You do not mean noisy.”
“I don’t?”
“You do not.”
“Then what do I mean?”
“I await the revelation.”
“Nasty,” I said. “Maybe a little crazy. She’s a little nasty-crazy.”
He put down his teacup and leaned forward. “I met this woman on the stairs yesterday. I said good afternoon, but she did not.”
“What did she say?”
“She made a suggestion I will not repeat. Nasty—I am sorry to say, yes. Crazy—maybe.” He leaned forward even farther. “May I share this with you, Jonah Kirk, and be certain you will never quote me?”
I raised my right hand. “Swear to God.”
“The best word to describe her is dangerous. I have known dangerous people in my life. Please believe me that I have.”
“I believe you, sir.”
“If you are intrigued by this Eve Adams, resist your curiosity. She is only trouble. We must hope she will be gone without damage.”
For a moment, I considered sharing my experience with the woman, but it seemed that if I told him about her threats, I’d have to tell him also that I had seen her in a dream, strangled and dead. I didn’t want him to think that the best word to describe me was nutcase.
I allowed myself to say only, “I think maybe she’s a witch.”
He raised his eyebrows. “How extraordinary. Why do you think this?”
“Sometimes she just … appears.”
“Appears what?”
“You know, sort of like out of thin air. In places where she couldn’t be.”
“I myself have not observed this.”
Having said too much, I rose to my feet and added only, “It’s freaky. Anyway, if you hear anything funny up there … I mean anything suspicious …”
“I expect to hear many suspicious things, Jonah Kirk. But I will not listen.”
“Huh? Won’t listen?” I tried to puzzle out his meaning. “Don’t you care if she’s up to no good?”
“I am concerned. But I want no trouble. I have had enough of trouble, you see. More than enough.”
“Well … okay, sure, I guess.” As he rose from the couch, I said, “Thanks for the little cakes. And the tea. And the honey.”
Half bowing, he said, “Thank you, Jonah Kirk, for sharing your mother’s delicious cookies. It was most kind of you.”
Walking down to Mrs. Lorenzo’s apartment, I carried a weight of disappointment. I had hoped Mr. Yoshioka and I might join forces to discover the truth of Fiona Cassidy. He was a small man, perhaps five foot six and slender, but during our visit, I had become convinced—I don’t know why—that he was brave, even courageous. Maybe I had been too impressed by the fact that he had tigers on his walls.
26
I don’t recollect what I expected to happen next. Perhaps memory has failed me after all these years. Or perhaps I didn’t anticipate any specific act of evil, but instead lived in the shadow of general apprehension regarding both my father and Fiona Cassidy.
The Labor Day weekend arrived. I would be back in classes at Saint Scholastica School on Tuesday. Saturday, after a long piano session at the community center, I returned to our apartment at 5:20 P.M., after my mother had left early for Slinky’s.