Dixieland Sushi Page 13
“You’d better be quiet. I need to concentrate for the take-off.”
Riley stops singing. “Actually, I believe we’ve already taken off.”
The PA system dings above our heads. The captain’s voice comes over the speakers announcing that we’ve reached our cruising altitude.
I whip open the window shade next to me and stare out the window. I see only clouds. Then, slowly, I realize that Riley did that on purpose. He was distracting me so that I wouldn’t be scared. I’m struck by the fact that this is incredibly sweet.
“Riley …” I start, but he’s pulling his baseball cap over his eyes, preparing to sleep.
“Don’t mention it. And by the way, would you mind shutting that shade? I’m going to take a nap.”
Riley falls instantly asleep and midway through his nap, he puts his head on my shoulder. I let it stay there.
My hangover is not improved by the dry air in the airplane, and after trying to down as much water as possible, I find my head is still throbbing and I can’t concentrate on anything, even the possibility of plummeting to my untimely death. Before I know it, I’ve fallen asleep, too.
I come abruptly awake with a jarring kind of panic and realize that we’ve landed.
“You’ve got some drool on your chin,” Riley points out to me.
Hastily, I wipe my face.
“Gotcha,” Riley says, giving me a sly smile.
We collect our bags quickly from the two-gate airport terminal. Riley is still humming “All You Need Is Love” and I’m trying to ignore him, but it isn’t working. I turn on my mobile phone and check to see if I have any messages, but I can’t get a signal.
“What are you doing?” Riley asks me, as I hold up my phone in various directions, then freezing when I get a single bar on my cell phone.
“I can’t get a signal.”
“About bloody time. Maybe now you’ll finally let go a little.”
“Funny,” I say. “The Elvis conga line wasn’t enough letting go for you?”
“I happen to like the Elvis-conga-line Jen. I’d like to see more of her.”
I give him a look. “I bet you would.”
Outside, we’re greeted by a blast of hot humid air and Grandma Saddie’s silver Buick.
“Uh-oh.” I sigh.
Grandma Saddie is honking and waving from the driver’s side like she’s in a parade. A few of the people milling about the airport entrance stop to stare. “Praise Jesus!” she’s saying. “Praise the Lord!”
Grandma Saddie is the Nakamura family’s religious zealot. In 1986 she wandered into a Baptist tent revival by accident, thinking she was at the flea market. She had been on the lookout for some new serving plates, but instead she got eternal salvation.
Grandma Saddie, who is four feet tall, comes out of the driver’s side door and hugs me. She pulls away and looks at Riley. “Praise Jesus, you must be The Boyfriend,” Grandma Saddie says, sounding like I never have boyfriends. I watch to see if Riley flinches at the word “boyfriend.” He doesn’t seem fazed.
“His name is Riley, Grandma,” I say. “Nigel Riley.”
Riley glances at me. He likes being introduced last name first like James Bond. “Riley. Nigel Riley. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Nakamura.” He offers her his hand, but she gives him a hug instead, and he stoops down to hug her back. Her head barely meets his elbow.
Released from Grandma Saddie’s hug, Riley walks around to the back of the car to put our suitcases in her trunk. I hope he doesn’t notice Grandma Saddie’s bumper stickers. She has one that reads, “Honk if you love the Lord” and another that reads, “Jesus is my co-pilot.”
When I was younger, I would always joke about accidentally sitting on Jesus when I rode shotgun. Grandma Saddie never found it funny. “Ya-shee, but you’re getting skinny,” Grandma Saddie says, looking me over. “Those pants are hanging off you.”
“Grandma, they’re low-riding jeans. They’re supposed to sit down low.”
“They look like they’re falling down.”
“Pants at your knees, it’s the latest fashion statement,” I quip.
“Ya-shee,” Grandma Saddie says, laughing. “You always want to be like Johnny Carson.”
“Ah, it’s been so long since we’ve seen Jen,” Grandma Sad-die tells Riley as we climb into the car. “So long. Years, even. She’s so busy with her work.”
Here it is, I think. The first guilt trip. I’ll hear some variation of this from all the members of my family. While they’re proud of my accomplishments, they don’t understand why I don’t take vacations like a normal person, or why I can’t spend two weeks at Christmas and a week at Thanksgiving like Kimberly does.
In the car, Grandma Saddie turns up the radio and sings along to a Christian rock ballad about turning the other cheek. Grandma Saddie, who is eye to eye with her steering wheel, has jet black hair and only a single streak of gray running down the middle like a skunk. She is propped up on a telephone book, and she still has difficulty reaching the gas or brake. I’m sure that to other drivers it looks as if Riley and I are in the car alone.
Grandma Saddie is a notoriously bad driver. She’s killed two possums, four raccoons, and one armadillo with her Buick. The armadillo she didn’t even know she hit, even though it rolled up on the hood, hit the windshield with a crack, and went flying off over the car roof.
When a giant semi barrels by us, honking, I suggest that maybe she should consider giving the car more gas.
“I’m going the speed limit,” she tells me, even though the speedometer says 35 mph.
I’ve told Grandma Saddie before about the stereotype regarding Asian women drivers. She doesn’t seem concerned about reinforcing prejudices.
“The Lord, in his blessed mercy, has prevented me from ever being in an accident,” she says.
“Are you sure you can see?” I ask her. It seems to me she has to look up to see the speedometer.
“Praise Jesus, my eyes are as good as ever.”
Her tires spin a little in the gravel on the shoulder of the highway, and she makes an exaggerated adjustment of the wheel that nearly sends us careening into a Jeep full of teenagers. They honk angrily at us and then one of the passengers gives us the finger.
“Praise Jesus!” Grandma Saddie exclaims. “So many people love God.”
I’ve long since tried to explain that people aren’t honking because of her bumper sticker, but Grandma Saddie simply prefers to think she’s surrounded by God’s faithful followers.
I glance back at Riley. He sends me an amused smile. He is clearly being entertained.
“Are you sure you won’t let me drive?” I ask her.
“Jesus is looking after us,” she says. “There’s no need to worry.”
Jesus, I think, may be looking after Grandma Saddie, who gives her entire Social Security check to the church, but I doubt he’s looking after me, since I haven’t been to church in ten years.
A UPS truck driver beside us lays on his horn with five rapid bursts that almost sound like he’s trying to play Dixie. Grandma Saddie gives him a good-natured wave and exclaims, “Praise, Jesus!” as he passes.
Forty minutes of honking later, we cross the city line of Dixieland, which is marked by a hand-painted wooden billboard that welcomes us “to the home of Fried Pickles and the Best Barbeque in the South.”
Dixieland consists of a town square and a Dairy Queen and other coffee shops off the main Interstate. It has some old small-town charm, but Dixieland would never be chosen for the setting of one of those endearing Southern movies like Steel Magnolias or Fried Green Tomatoes. For one thing, you couldn’t get a shot of the town square without one of those bothersome signs in the distance, the giant golden arches, or the supersize highway signs for Burger King and Dairy Queen.
Added to these modern franchises, I notice, are a couple of signs indicating new construction of what looks like an outlet mall. “What’s all this?” I ask Grandma Saddie.
“Praise Jesus, we�
�re a big suburb now,” Grandma Saddie says. “A lot has changed since you’ve been here last.”
What hasn’t changed, I see, as we pull up into the driveway of my childhood home, is my mother’s house. It’s a vintage shingled Victorian two-story with a giant wraparound porch, complete with porch swing. It looks just as it did the last time I saw it five years ago. The only thing that’s different is the line of white trucks and trailers parked out front. It looks like her house has been turned into a movie set, since there are so many men walking around with cords and pieces of a tent they’re trying to erect on the lawn.
Even from the driveway I can hear Lucy shouting from inside the house. Apparently the tent men are abusing the lawn.
Aunt Teri comes out first. She’s still blond, and she’s wearing a signature red Chinese dress, as well as three different Chinese zodiac pendants hanging from her neck. They’re all some version of a Tiger, her zodiac sign. I never took to the Chinese zodiac, in large part because I’m an Ox, which is hardly flattering.
Aunt Teri—sensitive to recent claims by Vivien that she’s a “fake Oriental”—has started taking tea ceremony and flower-arranging classes (Ikebana) at the Little Rock Community College. Last summer, she tried building a Japanese garden behind Vivien’s house, including a small pond with carp, but the Arkansas summer was so hot the fish died of heatstroke.
“Jen!” Aunt Teri says, giving me a hug. She steps back and takes notice of Riley. “You must be The Boyfriend.”
Why is everyone saying “The Boyfriend” as if it’s a title of dubious distinction?
“I’m Riley, nice to meet you,” he says, extending his hand.
Aunt Teri shakes his hand distractedly. “What year were you born?” she asks him right away.
“1976.”
“I didn’t know you were younger than me.”
“Ah-hah!” Aunt Teri says. “A Dragon. Very special. You’re popular, intelligent, gifted, but a bit demanding. You want everything to be perfect. But, most importantly, you’re well suited for our stable Ox here. She’ll help ground you, while you help loosen her up.”
“Teri!” I exclaim.
“What?” she asks me.
“Ox?” Riley says, sending me a sly grin of amusement.
“Ya-shee!” cries my mother, Vivien, in excitement. She barrels into me with all the force of a steamroller. She crushes me in a hug as if I’ve just been released from a hostage situation.
“I thought I wouldn’t see you till my funeral,” Vivien says, releasing me after nearly crushing the wind out of my lungs. “What are we all doing standing outside? We’re going to get heatstroke.”
Vivien ushers everyone inside. She, being the older sister, is also bossier. Since Grandma Saddie never had a son, Aunt Bette calls Vivien the de facto patriarch of the family. Despite the fact that she is often inadvertently alienating her sister or sister-in-law, Vivien is always the one who claims to believe most in the importance of family.
“Go easy, Viv,” Teri says. “You’re so typically a Pig.”
“Pig is her zodiac sign,” I explain to a startled-looking Riley.
Vivien looks the same—her big-helmet hair is in place, as well as her blue eye shadow. She gives me another big hug and tells me I look too skinny.
“What are these pants?” she asks. “They’re falling down.”
“They’re supposed to be low riding,” I tell her.
“So this is the Mystery Man we’ve been hearing about,” Vivien says, giving Riley a once-over and walking around him like he’s a used car. I half expect her to ask him to show her his teeth. She doesn’t. Instead she offers her hand.
“Vivien,” she says. “Nice to meet you.”
“Riley,” he says, and shakes her hand. “Pleasure to meet you, too.”
Lucy comes out next, and she’s carrying a bridal veil in one hand and a bridal magazine in the other. As usual, Lucy is stunning. She’s got her mother’s blond hair and big blue eyes. She is the only one in the family that people regularly mistake for a model. At twenty she manages to exude a deadly combination of innocence and sex, even though she’s wearing a seemingly casual outfit of yoga pants and a tank top, her honey gold mass of curly hair swept up in a loose bun at the back of her neck.
“Mooom!” she whines. “This veil doesn’t look like the one in the picture at all.”
Lucy stops talking once she sees Riley and me, although it is Riley where she focuses more of her attention.
“Hi, Jen. When did you get here? Who is this?”
“I’m Riley,” he says, extending his hand. I watch his face. Usually when it comes out that I’m related to a five-foot-ten blond model, people never believe me. Riley doesn’t show surprise. I secretly like him even more for that. In fact, he doesn’t even seem overwhelmed the way most men are who meet Lucy for the first time. Most of them are trying to figure out where to look first, and it’s usually not Lucy’s face.
“I’m the bride,” she answers and then starts giggling in her flirty way. “But I guess that’s obvious, huh?” she says, holding up the bridal veil.
“Nice to meet you, Ms…. Uh … Bride?” Riley says. This causes Lucy to laugh.
“Oh my God. I love your accent!” Lucy exclaims. “G’day, mate!” she coos at him.
Riley sends me a wry glance. “Uh, I’m from the UK, actu-ally.”
“Oh, how silly of me,” Lucy says. “Isn’t that where they filmed Lord of the Rings?”
“That’s New Zealand,” I say.
“Do they eat Vegemite in the UK? I hear that stuff is loaded with fat,” Lucy says. She’s still not getting it. I doubt she knows what UK stands for. This is one of many reasons she ought to be going to college instead of getting married. Then again, Lucy never did well in school. I think this is because there was always a boy willing to do her homework.
“He grew up in London,” I say.
“Oh! Right. I’m so silly,” she says, giving Riley her patented coy look. I know she’s practiced this look because years ago I caught her doing this face, among many others, in the bathroom mirror. Her main staples are: Coy, Pouty, Flirty, and the Miss America Smile. The whole family believes that had she used her Coy look instead of her Miss America Smile she would’ve won the title of Miss Arkansas. Normally, even men double Lucy’s age will start to melt at the mere hint of Coy.
I watch Riley carefully to gauge his reaction. Again, Riley doesn’t show any new emotion. He treats Lucy with the same friendly, polite expression he used for Grandma Saddie. I send Riley a grateful smile.
“Jen has told me so much about you all,” Riley says. “I’m glad to meet you in person.”
“How long have you been dating?” Vivien asks us.
“Is anyone else hungry?” I interrupt. “I, for one, am starved.”
“Oh dear. Where are my manners!” cries Vivien. “Come on, ya’ll, sit, and I’ll get you both a snack.”
Seconds later, Vivien presents us with a giant plate full of inari and her signature cooked tuna rolls (tuna marinated in soy sauce and sugar and rolled up in sushi rice). “But save some room. We’re having stir-fry tonight.”
Beef stir-fry is another Nakamura signature meal. Vivien and Grandma Saddie load beef and all sorts of vegetables into their giant wok and out comes the most tender, tasty concoction you’ve ever eaten. No matter how often I try to imitate this, I fail. I’m convinced it’s my Southern genes at work.
I look at the sushi and the pickled vegetables and think of the time at the roller rink with Kevin Peterson. I glance up at Riley, almost daring him to eat something. Riley takes hold of the most exotic thing on the plate, dried fish, and takes a big bite.
“Not bad,” he says, mouth half-full. He goes for the pickled radish next. And then the sushi rolls. He has no one to impress, not like John the Asian Interloper. He has nothing to prove by eating my grandma’s odd assortment of Japanese foods, but he does so with gusto. In fifteen minutes, the two of us have wiped the plate clean.
“You had this stuff all the time, and you wouldn’t eat it?” Riley asks me, amazed.
“I was going through an Identity Crisis.”
“She didn’t think she was Oriental,” Vivien says.
“Mom, you know if Kimberly were here she’d tell you the correct term is ‘Asian.’”
“Ya-shee, same difference,” Vivien says. “You see, the kids at school were telling Jen she was adopted. And so she started thinking maybe she was. She’d go up to different families at the supermarket and ask, ‘Did you give me up for adoption?’ For months she went around convinced she was from Central America.” Vivien and Grandma Saddie have a laugh at my expense.
“It’s actually tragic when you think about it,” I say in my defense.
“Well, you know what I say,” Vivien adds. “You can lead a duck to water, but you can’t make him drink.”
Riley looks from both of them to me, with a quizzical expression on his face.
“Um … where is the groom?” I ask, changing the subject and trying to be casual, but my voice shows some of my nerves.
Riley gives me a sidelong glance.
“He’s in Little Rock tonight,” Lucy says. “But he’ll be back tomorrow. He had some kind of business to take care of, he said.”
“We think he’s getting a special gift for Lucy,” Vivien says.
“Oh, go on,” Lucy says, but she’s clearly thrilled by the idea. The fact that I won’t be seeing Kevin Peterson fills me with both disappointment and relief.
“You two thinking about getting married?” Grandma Sad-die asks suddenly of Riley and me. I nearly spit out my iced tea.
“Grandma!” I gasp.
“Well, everyone was thinking it, I just asked,” Grandma Saddie says. “The joke around here is that Jen will show up at Thanksgiving one of these days married with four kids.”
“She never tells us anything, and we’re lucky to even see her once in a blue moon. We’re so neglected,” Vivien explains. “And you know I have a heart condition.”
“Mom, you don’t have a heart condition.”
Vivien ignores me. “How long did you say you were dating?” she asks Riley.