Angry with herself—she should have told him where she was going, should have brushed off Abercorn, should have run both ways—she threw the bag down and fell into the rocker by the window. He was gone. He’d never trust her now. But then so what? What did she care? Let him starve. For a long while she sat there rocking as the shadows lengthened and the calm of evening fell over her books, her typewriter, the hot plate and pitcher plants, all the familiar objects of her little life in this temporary outpost. And then, at long last, it occurred to her—and the thought was as sharp as a pinprick—that he might be testing her. Even now he might be crouched in the tangle out there, watching and waiting. All right, she thought, and got up from the chair, poured some water from the jug into a basin and carried it out onto the porch. She made a separate trip for the jug, and left it beside the basin. Then she fished through the bag and arranged the soap and Band-Aids, the towel and clothing and the rest of it on the rail, stuffed the two letters in her hip pocket and started back, through the cloistral deeps of evening, to Thanatopsis House.
In the morning, the things were gone. He’d returned the basin to its hook beside the fireplace, and she found the rag of the overalls and Clara Kleinschmidt’s violated panties neatly folded in the corner. He didn’t come for the lunch pail that afternoon, but she left it there on its hook—she joked to herself that she could stand to lose a few pounds anyway—and in the morning it was empty. The same thing happened the following day and she thought they’d established a pattern, a rhythm, but she was wrong. A day passed, and then another, and there was no sign that he’d been there. Lunches spoiled. Owen was perplexed. Abercorn packed up his suitcase and Turco his boom box, and, assuring the colonists that the Japanese was no longer a threat, they climbed into their battered Datsun and drove off to the ferry. Saxby filled his aquarium with rocks, water and plants, and in the small hours of the long thick endless nights made Ruth’s blood rush with his lips and his fingers and all the rest of him too. And Ruth established herself in the billiard room and at the convivial table and sat down to her typewriter with a new purpose and a delicious lingering thrill of expectation: he’d be back, her Japanese, any moment now. She knew he would. After all, she thought, how could he resist?
But now, now she had a headache and she was hungover and Owen’s wake-up call had taken her by surprise. The morning was stifling, a blanket thrown over her face, and it was August already, the first week nearly gone, and there’d been no sign of Hiro for three days now. She forced herself to get up. She had work to do—she’d never worked so well in her life—and she was anxious to get down to breakfast, reign over the table and clear her head with lukewarm coffee and scalding gossip.
She ran a brush through her hair and pulled it back in a ponytail, made up her eyes and brushed her teeth, then slipped into a pair of shorts and a halter top, no brassiere, and dug her white cork-heeled canvas sandals out from under the bed. As she passed through the silent room, Laura Grobian looked up from her soft-boiled egg and acknowledged her with a dip of the head and a blink of the famous haunted eyes, and Ruth felt a quick little surge of triumph. Then it was through the oak doors and on into the convivial room, where she was greeted by laughter, cigarette smoke and shouts of “La Dershowitz!” and “Up so soon?” and “She’s feeling it now!”
Bob, Sandy, Irving Thalamus, Ina Soderbord and half a dozen others were gathered at the long dark table, a rubble of thrice-read newspapers, books, manuscripts, egg-stained plates, mugs and ashtrays scattered about them. The big silver rocket of a coffee pot sat on the sideboard, along with a serving pan of waffles and a bowl of fruit compote. Rico was in the kitchen, making toast, eggs and Canadian bacon to order. Ruth ducked her head through the swinging door to the kitchen and caught him flipping an omelet behind his back. “Pretty fancy,” she said, tailing it with a low whistle.
Rico gave her a gold-capped smile. He was twenty-two, six inches shorter than any man ought reasonably to be, and his big black circular eyes devoured his face in sadness. “No sweat,” he said.
“Could you make me a poached egg when you get a chance?” she asked, leaning in and balancing on one leg. The kitchen smelled rich and potent. “And maybe some dry wheat toast, two slices?”
“No sweat,” Rico said, and he flipped the omelet again, just to show off.
