Long Distance

KIRBY CHRISTIANSON IS STANDING UNDER THE SHOWer, fiddling with the hot-water spigot and thinking four apparently simultaneous thoughts: that there is never enough hot water in this apartment, that there was always plenty of hot water in Japan, that Mieko w ill be here in four days, and that he is unable to control Mieko’s expectations of him in any way. The thoughts of Mieko are accompanied by a feeling of anxiety as strong as the sensation of the hot water, and he would like the water to flow through him and wash it away. He turns from the shower head and bends backward, so that the stream can pour over his face.

When he shuts off the shower, the phone is ringing. A sense that it has been ringing for a long time—can a mechanical noise have a quality of desperation?—propels him naked and dripping into the living room. He picks up the phone and his caller, as he has suspected, is Mieko. Perhaps he is psychic; perhaps this is only a coincidence, or perhaps no one else has called him in the past week or so.

The connection has a crystalline clarity that tricks him into not allowing for the satellite delay. He is already annoyed after the first hello. Mieko’s voice is sharp, high, very Japanese, although she speaks superb English. He says, “Hello, Mieko,” and he sounds annoyed, as if she called him too much, although she has only called once to give him her airline information and once to change it. Uncannily attuned to the nuances of his voice, she says, “Oh, Kirby,” and falls silent.

Now there will be a flurry of tedious apologies, on both sides. He is tempted to hang up on her, call her back, and blame his telephone—faulty American technology. But he can’t be certain that she is at home. So he says, “Hello, Mieko? Hello, Mieko? Hello, Mieko?” more and more loudly, as if her voice were fading. His strategy works. She shouts, “Can you hear me, Kirby? I can hear you, Kirby.”

He holds the phone away from his ear. He says, “That’s better. Yes, I can hear you now.”

“Kirby, I cannot come. I cannot go through with my plan. My father has lung cancer, we learned this morning.”

He has never met the father, has seen the mother and the sister only from a distance, at a department store.

“Can you hear me, Kirby?”

“Yes, Mieko. I don’t know what to say. ”

“You don’t have to say anything. I have said to my mother that I am happy to stay with her. She is considerably relieved.”

“Can you come later, in the spring?”

“My lie was that this Melville seminar I was supposed to attend would be offered just this one time, which was why I had to go now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know that I am only giving up pleasure. I know that my father might die.”

As she says this, Kirby is looking out his front window at the snowy roof of the house across the street, and he understands at once from the hopeless tone of her voice that to give up the pleasure that Mieko has promised herself is harder than to die. He understands that in his whole life he has never given up a pleasure that he cherished as much as Mieko cherished this one. He understands that in a just universe the father would rather die alone than steal such a pleasure from his daughter. All these thoughts occur simultaneously, and are accompanied by a lifting of the anxiety he felt in the shower. She isn’t coming. She is never coming. He is off the hook. He says, “But it’s hard for you to give it up, Mieko. It is for me, too. I’m sorry.”

The sympathetic tones in his voice wreck her self-control, and she begins to weep. In the five months that Kirby knew Mieko in Japan, and in the calls between them since, she has never shed a tear, hardly ever let herself be caught in a low moment, but now she weeps with absolute abandon, in long, heaving sobs, saying, “Oh, oh, oh,” every so often. Once, the sounds fade, as if she has put down the phone, but he does not dare hang up, does not even dare move the phone from one ear to the other. This attentive listening is what he owes to her grief, isn’t it? If she had come, and he had disappointed her, as he would have, this is how she would have wept in solitude after swallowing her disappointment in front of him. But her father has done it, not him. He can give her a little company after all. He presses the phone so hard to his ear that it hurts. The weeping goes on for a long time and he is afraid to speak and interfere with what will certainly be her only opportunity to give way to her feelings. She gives one final wailing “Ohhh” and begins to cough and choke. Finally she quiets, and then sighs. After a moment of silence she says, “Kirby, you should not have listened.”

“How could I hang up?”

“A Japanese man would have.”

“You sound better, if you are back to comparing me with Japanese men.”

“I am going to bang up now, Kirby. I am sorry not to come. Good-bye.”

“Don’t hang up.”

“Good-bye.”

“Mieko?”

“Good-bye, Kirby.”

“Call me! Call me again!” He is not sure that she hears him. He looks at the phone and then puts it on the cradle.

TWO HOURS LATER HE IS ON THE HIGHWAY. THIS IS, after all, two days before Christmas, and he is on his way to spend the holidays with his two brothers and their wives and children, whom he hasn’t seen in years. He has thought little about this visit, beyond buying a few presents. Mieko’s coming loomed, imposing and problematic. They had planned to drive out west together—she had paid extra so that she could land in Minneapolis and return from San Francisco—and he had looked forward to seeing the mountains again. They had made reservations on a bus that carries tourists into Yellowstone Park in the winter, to look at the smoke geysers and the wildlife and the snow. The trip would have seemed very American to her—buffalo and men in cowboy boots and hats. But it seemed very Japanese to him—deep snow, dark pines, sharp mountains.

The storm rolls in suddenly, the way it sometimes does on I-35 in Iowa, startling him out of every thought except alertness. Snow swirls everywhere, blotting out the road, the other cars, sometimes even his own front end. The white of his headlights reflects back at him, so that he seems to be driving into a wall. He can hardly force himself to maintain thirty-five miles an hour, although he knows he must. To stop would be to invite a rear-end collision. And the shoulder of the road is invisible. Only the white line, just beside the left front corner of the car, reveals itself intermittently as the wind blows the snow off the pavement. He ejects the tape he is playing and turns on the radio, to the state weather station. He notices that his hand is shaking. He could be killed. The utter blankness of the snowy whirl gives him a way of imagining what it would be like to be dead. He doesn’t like the feeling.

He remembers reading two winters ago about an elderly woman whose son dropped her off at her apartment. She discovered that she had forgotten her key, and with the wind-chill factor at eighty below zero, she froze before she got to the manager’s office. The winter before that a kid who broke his legs in a snowmobile accident crawled three miles to the nearest farmhouse, no gloves, only a feed cap on his head.

Twenty below, thirty below—the papers always make a big deal of the temperature. Including wind chill, seventy, a hundred below. Kirby carries a flashlight, a down sleeping bag, a sweatshirt that reads UNIVERSITY OF NEBRASKA, gloves and mittens. His car has new tires, front-wheel drive, and plenty of antifreeze. He has a thermos of coffee. But the horror stories roll through his mind anyw ay. A family without boots or mittens struggles two miles to a McDonald’s through high winds, blowing snow, thirty below. Why would they travel in that weather? Kirby always thinks when he reads the papers, but of course they do. He does. Always has.

A gust takes the car, just for a second, and Kirby grips the wheel more tightly. The same gust twists the enveloping snow aloft and reveals the Clear Lake rest stop. Kirby is tempted to stop, tempted not to. He has, after all, never died before, and he has driven through worse than this. He passes the rest stop. Lots of ears are huddled there; but then, lots of cars are still on the highway. Maybe the storm is letting up.

As soon as he is past the rest stop, he thinks of Mìeko, her weeping. She might never weep like that again, even if she heard of his death. The connection in her mind between the two of them, the connection that she allowed to stretch into the future despite all his admonitions and all her resolutions, is broken now. Her weeping was the sound of its breaking. And if he died here, in the next ten minutes, how would she learn of it? His brothers wouldn’t call her, not even if she were still coming, because they didn’t know she had planned to come. And if she were ever to call him back, she would get only a disconnect message and would assume that he had moved. He can think of no way that she could hear of his death, even though no one would care more than she would. These thoughts fill him with self-pity, but at least they drive out the catalogue of horror: station wagon skids into bridge abutment, two people are killed, two paralyzed from the neck down, mother survives unharmed, walks to nearby farmhouse. Kirby weighs the boredom and good fellowship he will encounter sitting out the storm at a truck stop against possible tragedy. Fewer cars are on the road; more are scattered on the median strip. Inertia carries him onward. He is almost to Minnesota, after all, where they really know how to take care of the roads. He will stop at the tourist center and ask about conditions.

But he drives past the tourist center by mistake, lost in thought. He decides to stop in Faribault. But by then the snow seems to be tapering off. Considering the distance he has traveled, Minneapolis isn’t far now. He checks the odometer. Only fifty miles or so. An hour and a half away, at this speed. His mind eases over the numbers with customary superhighway confidence, but at once he imagines himself reduced to walking, walking in this storm, with only a flashlight, a thermos of coffee, a University of Nebraska sweatshirt—and the distance swells to infinity. Were he reduced to his own body, his own power, it might be too far to walk just to find a telephone.

For comfort he calls up images of Japan and southern China, something he often does. That he produces these images is the one tangible change that his travels have made in him. So many human eyes have looked upon every scene there for so many eons that every sight has an arranged quality: a flowering branch in the foreground, a precipitous mountainside in the background, a small bridge between. A path, with two women in red kimonos, that winds up a hillside. A white room with pearly rice-paper walls and a futon on the mat-covered floor, branches of cherry blossoms in a vase in the corner. They seem like pictures, but they are scenes he has actually looked upon: on a three-day trip out of Hong Kong into southern China, with some other teachers from his school on a trip to Kyoto, and at Akira’s house. Akira was a fellow teacher at his school who befriended him. His house had four rooms, two Japanese style and two Western style.

He remembers, of course, other scenes of Japan—acres of buses, faces staring at his Westernness, the polite but bored rows of students in his classroom—when he is trying to decide whether to go back there.

But these are not fixed, have no power; they are just memories, like memories of bars in Lincoln or the pig houses on his grandfather’s farm.

AND SO, HE SURVIVES THE storm. He pulls into the driveway of Harold’s new house, one he has not seen, though it is in a neighborhood he remembers from junior high school. The storm is over.

Harold has his snowblower out and is making a path from the driveway to his front door. With the noise and because his back is turned, he is unaware of Kirby’s arrival. Kirby stops the car, stretches, and looks at his watch. Seven hours for a four-hour trip. Kirby lifts his shoulders and rotates his head but does not beep his horn just yet. The fact is that he has frightened himself with the blinding snow, the miles of slick and featureless landscape, thoughts of Japan, and the thousands and thousands of miles between here and there. His car might be a marble that has rolled, only by luck, into a safe corner. He presses his fingers against his eyes and stills his breathing.

Harold turns around, grins, and shuts off the snowblow - er. It is a Harold identical to the Harold that Kirby has always known. Same bright snowflake ski hat, same bright ski clothing. Harold has spent his whole life skiing and skijumping. His bushy beard grows up to the hollows of his eyes, and when he leans into the car his moustache is, as always, crusted with ice.

“Hey!” he says. He backs away, and Kirby opens the car door.

“Made it!” Kirby says. That is all he will say about the trip. The last thing he wants to do is start a discussion about near misses. Compared with some of Harold’s near misses, this is nothing. In fact, near misses on the highway aren’t worth mentioning unless a lot of damage has been done to the car. Kirby knows of near misses that Harold has never dared to describe to anyone besides him, because they show a pure stupidity that even Harold has the sense to be ashamed of.

Over dinner, sweet and savory Nordic fare that Kirby is used to but doesn’t much like, he begins to react to his day. The people around the table, his relatives, waver in the smoky candlelight, and Kirby imagines that he can feel the heat of the flames on his face. The other people at the table seem unfamiliar. Leanne, Harold’s wife, he has seen only once, at their wedding. She is handsome and self-possessed-looking, but she sits at the corner of the table, like a guest in her own house. Eric sits at the head, and Mary Beth, his wife, jumps up and down to replenish the food. This assumption of primogeniture is a peculiarity of Eric’s that has always annoyed Kirby, but even aside from that they have never gotten along. Eric does his best—earnest handshake and smile each time they meet, two newsy letters every year, pictures of the children (known between Harold and Kirby as “the little victims”). Eric has a Ph.D. from Columbia in American history, but he does not teach. He writes for a conservative think tank— articles that appear on the op-ed pages of newspapers and in the think tank’s own publications. He specializes in “the family.” Kirby and Harold have made countless jokes at Eric’s expense. Kirby knows that more will be made this trip, if only in the form of conspiratorial looks, rolling eyes. Eric’s hobby—Mary Beth’s, too, for they share everything—is developing each nuance of his Norwegian heritage into a fully realized ostentation. Mary Beth is always busy, usually baking. That’s all Kirby knows about her, and all he cares to know.

Across the table Anna, their older daughter, pale, blueeyed, cool, seems to be staring at him, but Kirby can hardly see her. He is thinking about Mieko. Kirby looks at his watch. It is very early morning in Osaka. She is probably about to wake up. Her disappointment will have receded hardly a particle, will suck her down as soon as she thuds into consciousness. “Oh, oh, oh”: he can hear her cries as clearly as if they were vibrating in the air. He is amazed at having heard such a thing, and he looks carefully at the women around the table. Mieko would be too eager to please here, always looking after Mary Beth and Leanne, trying to divine how she might be helpful. Finally, Mary Beth would speak to her with just a hint of sharpness, and Mieko would be crushed. Her eyes would seek Kirby’s for reassurance, and he would have none to give. She would be too little, smaller even than Anna, and her voice would be too high and quick. These thoughts give him such pain that he stares for relief at Kristin, Eric’s youngest, age three, who is humming over her dinner. She is round-faced and paunchy, with dark hair cut straight across her forehead and straight around her collar. From time to time she and Leanne exchange merry glances.

Harold is beside him; that, at least, is familiar and good, and it touches Kirby with a pleasant sense of expectation, as if Harold, at any moment, might pass him a comic book or a stick of gum. In fact, Harold does pass him something—an icy cold beer, which cuts the sweetness of the food and seems to adjust all the figures around the table sea that they stop wavering.

OF COURSE HIS EYES OPEN WELL BEFORE DAYLIGHT, but he dares not move. He is sharing a room with Harold the younger, Eric’s son, whose bed is between his and the door. He worries that if he gets up he will stumble around and crash into walls and wake Harold. The digits on the clock beside Harold’s bed read 5:37, but when Kirby is quiet, he can hear movement elsewhere in the house. When he closes his eyes, the footsteps present themselves as a needle and thread, stitching a line through his thoughts. He has just been driving. His arms ache from gripping the wheel. The car slides diagonally across the road, toward the median. It slides and slides, through streams of cars, toward a familiar exit, the Marshalltown exit, off to the left, upward. His eyes open again. The door of the room is open, and Anna is looking in. After a moment she turns and goes away. It is 6:02. Sometime later Leanne passes with Isaac, the baby, in her arms.

Kirby cannot bear to get up and face his brothers and their families. As always, despair presents itself aesthetically. The image of Harold’s and Leanne’s living room, matching plaid wing chairs and couch, a triple row of wooden pegs by the maple front door, seems to Kirby the image of the interior of a coffin. The idea of spending five years, ten years, a lifetime, with such furniture makes him gasp. But his own apartment, armchair facing the television, which sits on a spindly coffee table, is worse. Mary Beth and Eric’s place, where he has been twice, is the worst, because it’s pretentious; they have antique wooden trunks and high-backed benches painted blue with stenciled flowers in red and white. Everything, everything, they own is blue and white, or white and blue, and Nordic primatif. Now even the Japanese images he calls up are painful. The pearly white Japanese-style room in Akira’s house was bitterly cold in the winter, and he spent one night there only half-sleeping, his thighs drawn to his chest, the perimeters of the bed too cold even to touch. His head throbbing, Kirby lies pinned to the bed by impossibility. He literally can’t summon up a room, a stick of furniture, that he can bear to think of. Harold the younger rolls over and groans, turning his twelve-year-old face toward Kirby’s. His mouth opens and he breathes noisily. It is 6:27.

Not until breakfast, when Leanne sets a bowl of raisin bran before him on the table, does he recall the appearance of Anna in the door to his room, and then it seems odd, especially when, ten minutes later, she enters the kitchen in her bathrobe, yawning. Fifth grade. Only fifth grade. He can see that now, but the night before, and in the predawn darkness, she had seemed older, more threatening, the way girls get at fourteen and fifteen. “Cereal, sweetie?” Leanne says, and Anna nods, scratching. She sits down without a word and focuses on the back of the Cheerios box. Kirby decides that he was dreaming and puts the incident out of his mind.

Harold, of course, is at his store, managing the Christmas rush, and the house is less festive in his absence. Eric has sequestered himself in Leanne’s sewing room, with his computer, and as soon as Anna stands up from breakfast, Mary Beth begins to arrange the day’s kitchen schedule. Kirby rinses his cup and goes into the living room. It is nine in the morning, and the day stretches before him, empty. He walks through the plaid living room to the window, where he regards the outdoor thermometer. It reads four degrees below zero. Moments later it is five degrees below zero. Moments after that he is standing beside Harold’s bar, pouring himself a glass of bourbon. He has already drunk it when Anna appears in the doorway, dressed now, and staring at him again. She makes him think of Mieko again—though the child is blonde and self-contained, she is Mieko’s size. Last evening, when he was thinking of Mieko, he was looking at Anna. He says, attempting jovial warmth, “Good morning, Anna. Why do you keep staring at me?”

She is startled. “I don’t. I was looking at the bookshelves.”

“But you stared at me last night, at dinner. And you came to the door of my room early this morning. I know because I was awake.”

“No, I didn’t.” But then she softens, and says with eager curiosity, “Are you a socialist?”

While Kirby is trying not to laugh, he hears Mary Beth sing from the kitchen. “Anna? Your brother is going sledding. You want to go?”

Anna turns away before Kirby can answer, and mounts the stairs. A “No!” floats, glassy and definite, from the second floor.

Kirby sits down in one of the plaid armchairs and gazes at an arrangement of greenery and shiny red balls and candles that sits on a table behind the couch. He gazes and gazes, contemplating the notion of Eric and Mary Beth discussing his politics and his life. He is offended. He knows that if he were to get up and do something he would stop being offended, but he gets up only to pour himself another drink. It is nearly ten. Books are around everywhere, and Kirby picks one up.

People keep opening doors and coming in, having been elsewhere. Harold comes home for lunch; Leanne and Isaac return from the grocery store and the hardware store; Harold the younger stomps in, covered with snow from sledding, eats a sandwich, and stomps out again. Eric opens the sewing-room door, takes a turn through the house, goes back in again. He does this three times, each time failing to speak to Kirby, who is sitting quietly. Perhaps he does not see him. He is an old man, Kirby thinks, and his rear has spread considerably in the past four years; he is thirty-six going on fifty, round-shouldered, wearing slacks rather than jeans. What a jerk.

But then Kirby’s bad mood twists into him, and he lets his head drop on the back of his chair. What is a man? Kirby thinks. What is a man, what is a man? It is someone, Eric would say, who votes, owns property, has a wife, worries. It is someone, Harold would say, who can chop wood all day and make love all night, who can lift his twentyfive-pound son above his head on the palm of his hand.

After lunch the men all vanish again, even Isaac, who is taking a nap. In various rooms the women do things. They make no noise. Harold’s house is the house of a wealthy man, Kirby realizes. It is large enough to be silent and neat most of the time, the sort of house Kirby will never own. It is Harold and Eric who are alike now. Only Kirby’s being does not extend past his fingertips and toes to family, real estate, reputation.

SOMETIME IN THE AFTERNOON, WHEN KIRBY IS STILL sitting quietly and his part of the room is shadowed by the movement of the sun to the other side of the house, Kristin comes in from the kitchen, goes straight to the sofa, pulls off one of the cushions, and begins to jump repeatedly from the cushion to the floor. When he says, “Kristin, what are you doing?” she is not startled. She says, “Jumping.”

“Do you like to jump?”

She says, “It’s a beautiful thing to do,” in her matter-offact, deep, three-year-old voice. Kirby can’t believe she knows what she is saying. She jumps three or four more times and then runs out again.

At dinner she is tired and tiresome. When Eric tells her to eat a bite of her meat (ham cooked with apricots), she looks him right in the face and says, “No.”

“One bite,” he says. “I mean it.”

“No. I mean it.” She looks up at him. He puts his napkin on the table and pushes back his chair. In a moment he has swept her through the doorway and up the stairs. She is screaming. A door slams and the screaming is muffled. When he comes down and seats himself, carefully laying his napkin over his slacks, Anna says, “It’s her body.”

The table quiets. Eric says, “What?”

“It’s her body.”

“What does that mean?”

“She should have control over her own body. Food. Other stuff. I don’t know.” She has started strong but weakens in the face of her father’s glare. Eric inhales sharply, and Kirby cannot restrain himself. He says, “How can you disagree with that? It sounds self-evident to me.”

“Does it? The child is three years old. I low can she have control over her own body when she doesn’t know anything about it? Does she go out without a coat if it’s twenty below zero? Does she eat only cookies for three days? Does she wear a diaper until she’s five? This is one of those phrases they are using these days. They all mean the same thing.”

“What do they mean?” As Kirby speaks, Leanne and Mary Beth look up, no doubt wishing that he had a wife or a girlfriend here to restrain him. Harold looks up too. He is grinning.

Eric shifts in his chair, uncomfortable, Kirby suddenly realizes, at being predictably stuffy once again. Eric says, “It’s Christmas. Let’s enjoy it.”

Harold says, “Principles are principles, any day of the year.”

Eric takes the bait and lets himself say, “The family is constituted for a purpose, which is the sometimes difficult socialization of children. For a certain period of their fix es others control them. In early childhood others control their bodies. They are taught to control themselves. Even Freud says that the young barbarian has to be taught to relinquish his feces, sometimes by force.”

“Good Lord, Eric,” Leanne says.

Eric is red in the face. “Authority is a principle I believe in.” He looks around the table and then at Anna, openly angry that she has gotten him into this. Across Anna’s face flits a look that Kirby has seen before, has seen on Mieko’s face, a combination of self-doubt and resentment molded into composure.

“Patriarchy is what you mean,” Kirby says, realizing from the tone of his own voice that rage has replaced sympathy and, moreover, is about to get the better of him.

“Why not? It works.”

“For some people, at a great cost. Why should daughters be sacrificed to the whims of the father?” He should stop now. He doesn’t. “Just because he put his dick somewhere once or twice.” The result of too many bourbons too early in the day.

“In my opinion—” Eric seems not to notice the vulgarity, but Harold, beside Kirby, snorts with pleasure.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Leanne says. Kirby blushes and falls silent, knowing that he has offended her. It is one of those long holiday meals, and by the time they get up from the table, Kirby feels as if he has been sitting in a dim, candlelit corner most of his life.

There is another ritual—the Christmas Eve unwrapping of presents—and by that time Kirby realizes that he is actively intoxicated and had better watch his tone of voice and his movements. Anna hands out the gifts with a kind of rude bashfulness, and Kirby is surprised at the richness of the array: from Harold he has gotten a cotton turtleneck and a wool sweater, in bright, stylish colors; from Leanne a pair of very fancy gloves; from Isaac three pairs of ragg wool socks; from Eric’s family, as a group, a blue terrycloth robe and sheepskin slippers. When they open his gifts, he is curious to see what the wrappings reveal: he has bought it all so long before. Almost everything is some gadget available in Japan but not yet in the States. Everyone peers and oohs and aahs. It gives Kirby a headache and a sense of his eyeballs expanding and contracting. Tomorrow night he will be on his way home again, and though he cannot bear to stay here after all, he cannot bear to go, either.

He drifts toward the stairs, intending to go to bed, but Harold looms before him, grinning and commanding. “Your brain needs some oxygen, brother,” he says. Then they are putting on their parkas, and then they are outside, in a cold so sharp that Kirby’s nose, the only exposed part of him, stings. Harold strides down the driveway, slightly ahead of him, and Kirby expects him to speak, either for or against Eric, but he doesn’t. He only walks. The deep snow is so solidly frozen that it squeaks beneath their boots. The only thing Harold says the whole time they are walking is, “Twenty-two below, not counting the wind chill. Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Feels dangerous,” Kirby says.

“It is,” Harold says.

The neighborhood is brightly decorated, and the colored lights have their effect on Kirby. For the first time in three Christmases he feels a touch of the mystery that he thinks of as the Christmas spirit. Or maybe it is love for Harold.

Back at the house, everyone has gone to bed except Leanne and Mary Beth, who are drying dishes and putting them away. They are also, Kirby realizes—after Harold strides through the kitchen and up the stairs—arguing, although with smiles and in polite tones. Kirby goes to a cabinet and lingers over getting himself a glass for milk. Mary Beth says, “Kristin will make the connection. She’s old enough.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“She saw all the presents being handed out and unwrapped. And Anna will certainly make the connection.”

“Anna surely doesn’t believe in Santa Claus anymore.”

“Unofficially, probably not.”

“It’s Isaac’s first Christmas,” Leanne says. “He’ll like all the wrappings.”

“I wish you’d thought of that before you wrapped the family presents and his Santa presents in the same paper.”

“That’s a point too. They’re his presents. I don’t think Kristin will notice them.”

“If they’re the only wrapped presents, she will. She notices everything.”

Now Leanne turns and gazes at Mary Beth, her hands on her hips. A long silence follows. Leanne flicks a glance at Kirby, who pretends not to notice. Finally she says, “All right, Mary Beth. I’ll unwrap them.”

“Thank you,” Mary Beth says. “I’ll finish this, if you want.” Kirby goes out of the kitchen and up to his bedroom. The light is already off, and Harold the younger is on his back, snoring.

WHEN HE GETS UP AN HOUR LATER, TOO DRUNK TO sleep, Kirby sees Leanne arranging the last of Santa’s gifts under the tree. She turns the flash of ter glance upon him as he passes through the living room to the kitchen. “Mmm,” he says, uncomfortable, “can’t sleep.”

“Want some cocoa? I always make some before I go to bed.”

He stops. “Yeah. Why not? Am I mistaken, or have you been up since about six A.M.?”

“About that. But I’m always wired at midnight, no matter what.”

He follows her into the kitchen, remembering now that they have never conversed, and wishing that he had stayed in bed. He has drunk himself stupid. Whatever words he has in him have to be summoned from very far down. He sits at the table. After a minute he puts his chin in his hand. After a long, blank, rather pleasant time, the cocoa is before him, marshmallow and all. He looks at it. When Leanne speaks, Kirby is startled, as if he had forgotten that she was there.

“Tired?” she says.

“Too much to drink.”

“I noticed.”

“I don’t have anything more to say about it.”

“I’m not asking.”

He takes a sip of his cocoa. He says, “Do you all see much of Eric and family?”

“They came last Christmas. He came by himself in the summer. To a conference on the future of the family.”

“And so you have to put up with him, right?”

“Harold has a three-day limit. I don’t care.”

“I noticed you unwrapped all Isaac’s presents.”

She shrugs, picks at the sole of her boot. She yawns without covering her mouth, and then says, “Oh, I’m sorry.” She smiles warmly, looking right at him. “I am crazy about Kristin. Crazy enough to not chance messing up Christmas for her.”

“Today she told me that jumping off a cushion was a beautiful thing to do.”

Leanne smiles. “Yesterday she said that it was wonderful of me to give her a napkin. You know, I don’t agree with Eric about that body stuff. I think they naturally do what is healthy for them.

Somebody did an experiment with one-year-olds, gave them a range of foods to choose from, and they always chose a balanced diet. They also want to be toilet trained sooner or later. I think it’s weird the way Eric thinks that every little thing is learned rather than realized.”

“That’s a nice phrase.” He turns his cup handle so that it points away and then back in his direction. Finally he says, “Can I tell you about something?”

“Sure.”

“Yesterday a friend of mine called me from Japan, a woman, to say that she couldn’t come visit me. Her father has cancer. She had planned to arrive here the day after tomorrow, and we were going to take a trip out west. It isn’t important, exactly. I don’t know.”

Leanne is silent but attentive, picking at the sole of her boot. Now that he has mentioned it, the memory of Mieko’s anguish returns to him like a glaring light or a thundering noise, so enormous that he is nearly robbed of the power to speak. He pushes it out. “She can’t come now, ever. She probably won’t ever call or write me again. And really, this has saved her. She had all sorts of expectations that I couldn’t have . . . well, wouldn’t have fulfilled, and if she had come she would have been permanently compromised.”

“Did you have some kind of affair when you were there?”

“For a few months. She’s very pretty. I think she’s the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen. She teaches mathematics at the school where I was teaching. After I had been with Mieko for a few weeks, I realized that no one, maybe in her whole adult life, had asked her how she was, or had put his arm around her shoulders, or had taken care of her in any way. The slightest affection was like a drug she couldn’t get enough of.”

“What did you feel?”

“I liked her. I really did. I was happy to see her when she came by. But she longed for me more than I have ever longed for anything.”

“You were glad to leave.”

“I was glad to leave.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“When she called yesterday, she broke down completely. I listened. I thought it was the least I could do, but now I think that she is compromised. Japanese people are very private. It scares me how much I must have embarrassed her. I look back on the spring and the summer and yesterday’s call, and I see that, one by one, I broke down every single one of her strengths, everything she had equipped herself with to live in a Japanese way. I was so careful for a year and a half. I didn’t date Japanese women, and I was very distant—but then I was so lonely, and she was so pretty, and I thought, well, she’s twenty-seven, and she lives in this sophisticated city, Osaka. But mostly I was lonely.”

Leanne gazes across the table in that way of hers, calm and considering. Finally she says, “Eric comes in for a lot of criticism around here. His style’s all wrong, for one thing. And he drives Harold the younger and Anna crazy. But I’ve noticed something about him. He never tries to get something for nothing. I admire that.”

Now Kirby looks around the room, at the plants on the windowsill, the hoarfrost on the window-panes, the fluorescent light harsh on the stainless-steel sink, and it seems to him that all at once, now that he realizes it, his life and Mieko’s have taken their final form. She is nearly too old to marry, and by the end of her father’s cancer and his life she will be much too old. And himself. Himself. Leanne’s cool remark has revealed his permanent smallness. He looks at his hands, first his knuckles, then his palms. He says, “It seems so dramatic to say that I will never get over this.”

“Does it? To me it seems like saying that what people do is important.” And though he looks at her intently, seeking some sort of pardon, she says nothing more, only picks at her boot for a moment or two, and then gets up and puts their cups in the sink. He follows her out of the kitchen, through the living room. She turns out all the lights, so that the house is utterly dark. At the bottom of the stairs, unable to see anything, he stumbles against her and excuses himself. There, soft and fleeting, he feels a disembodied kiss on his cheek, and her voice, nearly a whisper, says, “Merry Christmas, Kirby. I’m glad you’re here.”