A Certain Mr. Takahashi. Ann Ireland
One is Martin. He is holding a glass of Scotch in one hand and his friend’s elbow in the other.
“Look who’s here, Sam!”
Sam turns pale. She wipes her hands on her apron and says slowly, “Cody Sayles. What on earth . . . ?”
Jean scrutinizes the newcomer. He’s big, mid-forties at least, vaguely bohemian, and sports a full beard. His large head is shaved bald. Could be someone from the university. Plays the double bass, she guesses. Bass men are often bald.
“Hi, Sam,” says Cody Sayles.
Sam reluctantly extends her hand, but Cody ignores it. Instead he reaches his big arms around her and lifts her clear off the oak floor in a bear hug.
Sam endures his grip, her mouth pinched into a tight smile.
When he lets go he steps back, grinning boyishly, and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his khakis.
“This is our daughter, Jean,” says Martin. “Jeannie, meet Cody—an old friend.”
“Pleased to meet you,” says Cody. He crosses the room and brushes his lips against her cheek. She feels the wiry scratch of beard.
Startled, Jean laughs.
“Forgive me,” says Cody. “It’s just that I’m so happy to meet you. We’ve been out of touch a long time, your folks and I. And here you are”-he shakes his head in wonder—“a grown woman.” He nods toward Sam. “She looks a lot like you did.”
Sam shoots her husband a stormy look.
“We came to get Cody a beer,” says Martin quickly. He pulls a can out of the fridge and snaps it open. When he passes Jean he whispers, “Your mother putting you to work?”
Jean nods. She tries to think of something to say, but he has turned away.
“Shall we go and sit on one of those expensive rocks in the garden?” Martin says, steering Cody out of the kitchen.
Sam crosses her arms and watches the two men exit.
When the door is shut Jean says, “Who was that?”
Sam is still eyeing the closed door, not trusting it.
“Cody Sayles,” she mutters. “A very old story.”
“Oh?” says Jean, waiting for more. There is no more.
Something about Cody reminds Jean of the men at Buffy’s, the Seventh Avenue bar she stops in after teaching the old people. Maybe it’s the boyish face sunk in a middle-aged body. Like Scott, a bearded painter in his early fifties whose skin and clothes are stained with paint and nicotine. He always wears bib overalls and a denim shirt, and his greying hair is tied back in a ponytail. “Hi, Jeannie,” he waves.
“Come and cheer me up.”
“How’s the work going?” she asks, slipping onto a neighbouring stool.
He cringes. “I said cheer me up. Jesus, Jean, I’ve got to get out of here.” He pounds his glass on the counter till beer splashes over his wrist. “If I could get a little bread together I’d scram outta New York so fast you wouldn’t see a blur—you wouldn’t even smell me.”
“Where would you go, Scott?” As if she doesn’t know.
His jaw sets dreamily. “Connecticut, maybe, or an old farmhouse in New Hampshire. All I need is a barn, a fucking barn with a skylight so I can paint, do nothing but paint. No bar scene, no women, no nothing but goddamn snow and fields.” He gulps the final ounce of beer and signals for another. Jean and the bartender exchange winks.
“Sounds good, Scott. When are you going?”
“Maybe in a year, if I get a teaching job.” His voice rises to a near shout. “This place is devouring me, I can’t work any more, the art scene sucks. Look at SoHo.” He pronounces the word with inimitable contempt, “So-Ho-Ho,” then smiles, suddenly grabbing Jean around the waist. “How’d you like to come and live in an old barn in Connecticut with me, Jeannie?”
“Sure, Scott, sounds like fun.”
“No more bullshit, no more landlords, no more filthy air, just nature and”—he thrusts a fist in the air—“Ari!” He pauses then leans wearily against Jean.
“Another drink, my Canadian friend. My warm Canadian friend.”
Sometimes she goes away then, before his hand starts to wander under her blouse. Since his face stays the same she’s not sure if he realizes he’s doing it. Later, when the bar starts to heat up with the younger crowd, Scott lurches home, scowling. He never asks Jean to join him.
Sometimes she stays, or heads to another bar further uptown. It’s not that she drinks much. Occasionally, she’ll admit to herself that she’s waiting for someone. And if she meets someone else while she’s waiting—that’s all right, too. Yoshi won’t mind.
When Colette wakens, Jean is stretched on the back deck with her feet propped on the railing. A newspaper lies beside her, held in place by a Mexican vase.
Unseen, Colette watches her sister for a while. It must be nearly noon, with the sun shot high in the sky and few shadows. Jean’s eyes are open but staring ahead, unfocused.
“What are you thinking about?” says Colette, perching on the railing. She eyes, without alarm, the sheer drop of ten feet below.
Gradually, Jean swings her gaze around to her sister.
“Lots of things,” she says. “Everything.”
“Everything,” nods Colette. She cricks her head back and squints into the sun.
“While I was helping Sam in the kitchen,” continues Jean in a quiet voice, “she suggested I come out here, to Victoria, to live for a while.”
“Really?”
“I told her that was a ridiculous idea.” Jean sighs dramatically. “But now, looking over the cliffs, smelling the fresh wood and flowers—I’m tempted.” She shades her eyes. “Quite tempted.”
“What would you do here?”
“I don’t know. Who cares? Maybe go back to school.”
“Music?”
Jean jerks her feet off the railing, nearly upsetting her sister. “No!”
“Take it easy.”
Jean tries to. “Colette,” she muses. “If you could change one thing in your life-no matter how impossible it seemed—what would it be?”
Colette stands up and turns her back to Jean and the house. She can see the ribbon of water pulled taut between sky and cliff.
“I don’t think that way,” she says.
“Try,” urges Jean.
“I don’t think that way,” repeats Colette distinctly. “If something is going to change, it’s because I make it happen.”
“But don’t you ever wish you could live scenes over again, with your present insight?”
“No.” Colette whirls around. “I have no desire to live backwards.”
Jean lowers her eyes.
“Why are you asking this?” says Colette.
“It’s so hard,” replies Jean, testing.
“What is?”
She takes the plunge. “So hard to talk to you like a normal human being. There’s too much luggage—I mean baggage.” She giggles nervously. “We know so much about each other.”
Colette smiles. “Yet know nothing.”
Jean leans forward, hands clamped over knees. “That’s true. There’re things I’m