SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME – the book

In fond memory of Emi –

“A small butterfly

Lovely bright wings, dances past

Flying on the breeze“

(Anon)

___CHAPTER FOUR—

We sequestered ourselves for a few days and tended to the arduous task of expanding Emi’s worldview.

Emi’s inevitable awkwardness was slow to fade. I tried to keep matters lighthearted. She was highly motivated but too self-conscious to make the most of the experience.

Hmmm. Well, she’s probably distracted, thanks to Dishonorable Father-San. Her head’s still swimming, and chaos is reigning.

I stopped for a moment. “Here’s a fine idea on my part. We’re in no rush. We’ve got the weekend to ourselves. Let’s do something exotic.” I gently maneuvered us into position. “You, no doubt, have heard this elaborate physical arrangement as ‘spooning.’ This is where we lie together and relax. Talk, sleep, breathe, laugh, belch, laugh about belching. All kinda options.”

After some extended casual banter, she turned over and faced me with a look that we men generally interpret as, “What the hell are you waiting for? An invitation? I got your invitation right here. Let’s do this thing.”

So, we did this thing.

I wasn’t always the captain of the flight. Sometimes, I was the flight attendant.

“Insert the flap into the opening and adjust the strap to fit low and tight around your hips.” 

Well, you have to start slowly with these things.  

“Allow me to inflate your vest.  Alternatively, you can manually inflate it via this tube.”  

This is fun. 

“Approved portable electronic devices are now permitted.”  

Oh, please stop it.  

“Dearie, use caution when placing items on, under, or, well, in your seat.”  

I am such a disgraceful human being. Just disgraceful. 

“Your flight attendant can be used as a floatation device. Place your arms through the straps, hug your flight attendant to your chest, and hold on tight.” 

“We have begun our ascent into Happy Valley. Here are some complimentary bedsheets to squeeze.”  

This is too much fun.  

Back to being captain. “It looks like we’re going to be experiencing turbulence. Again. This will include hard jolts and free fall sensations. Again. Please do not fasten your seatbelt.” 

“Please return your seat upright and throw your head back. You may notice all the items in the overhead bin are shifting…like, a lot.” 

This is so great.  

“We are currently cruising at an altitude of 933,000 feet at a speed of 45,000 miles per hour. We are now entering the Bermuda Triangle. Again.”  

I’m a kind, patient college professor, and Emi is an eager-to-learn graduate student. “Let’s review what we’ve learned so far and make sure you have a firm foundation, no pun intended, to bang upon. I mean, build upon.” 

“Feel free to raise your hand…or leg if you have questions.” 

Am I back in seventh grade?   

Tour guide? “We’re entering the Space Mountain Rollercoaster. Above you, you’ll notice the bi-centennial fireworks display. And we’re walking. We’re walking…” 

The 800-pound rapists never materialized—no knock on the door. I, as usual, credited my generous intake of bourbon and cocaine for this. So, everyone had a rewarding time.

(Yes, I smuggled cocaine into Japan. This was desperately stupid and something I’d hardly recommend. Just in case you were considering it.) 

I might sound like a great and benevolent lover who did this all for Emi’s sake. That’s not the case. My desire was genuine. My inebriation was genuine, too. One went with the other. Still, I wanted a little moral context behind my craving.

Self-interest was on my side, too. The emotional connection with my temporal and spiritual selves felt dead for a long time. For a weekend, I felt a slight affiliation to both.  

This may be what people mean when they drool on about being alive. In my case, it’s closer to being on life-support.   

Monday morning reared its ugly head. It was late morning. But it was still morning. I fetched food and coffee. Upon my return, I spotted Emi sitting on the bed in a bathrobe, staring at the window as she did three days earlier. This time, she was relaxed and content.

I was her refuge, not her escape. That’s good. She can enjoy her newfound freedom. I need to get out of here for a couple of days.  

I sat next to her side-by-side. I looked at the same window. “Well, where are we in our day? In the ‘it is in my power to overthrow the law, to plant and overwhelm custom’ realm or closer to ‘what is done cannot be undone’?” 

Emi looked mystified. 

I smiled. “Sorry. Does the future look bright and unburdened by earlier lifetimes, or is it time to put the toothpaste back in the tube?” 

More mystification. 

I turned to her and said, “Sorry. Are you ready to take on the world? Feeling optimistic?” 

The stern father. “Young lady, orgasms do not grow on trees. They’re earned through hard work and discipline.” Argh, two days, and we didn’t do the discipline. I’m always forgetting the discipline. Next time, maybe.

“I am feeling optimistic. To feel this way is very nice. I am now happy. I believe I can, um…” She paused.  

I picked up her sentence. “Do whatever you jolly well please and not have a dark familial cloud hanging over you.” 

“Yes, that is correct. I will continue without them. I shall do this.”

“Well, Emi, a wise man once said, ‘You gotta walk, and don’t look back.’”

“Who is the wise man? This is a useful expression.”

“Peter Tosh.”

“Who?”

“Don’t worry about it.” 

Well, she has backed off on all the annoying vocalized pauses. That’s good. 

Emi looked amused. “I do have a question for you?” 

“Your breath. It stays very, um, fresh. Was this done for  me?” 

I wondered if she was going to call me on drinking Jack Daniels all day, every day. “Well, I do this for everyone. My breath can be frightening. Hideous. Unforgivable. Illegal in every American state except Utah.”

“You are very considerate by doing this.” She leaned her head against my shoulder and began to cry.  

Uh-oh. This could go in any number of directions. Be cool.

I hoped to wander around the country alone for a few days. I told her this already. I was getting restless.

If she wants to talk about “us,” I’ll need a subtle way of rerouting the conversation. Maybe I’ll bite her on the kneecap.

It was for a few reasons that I didn’t want to fall into a close relationship. Not the least of which was once someone became close to me; I lost all feeling for that person. Actually, I found myself repulsed by the whole thing. It’s not a great way to do business.

Eventually, I asked what was on her mind.

“You have been most kind. Um, with me.”

Aren’t I a real sweetheart?

If her father’s any sign, she hasn’t been showered with kindness and gentlemanly attention. This may have been her first encounter with these sorts of behaviors.

The occasional tear rolled down her cheek as she continued. “You were respectful, um, to me when my behavior was, um, unfortunate. Um, you were of, um, did not, um. You did not hurt me. Thank you for this.”

“Not hurt you?”

“Yes, this is correct. Um, I have been safe, um, here with you. This is of great importance. To, um, me. These, um, are things you should, um, know.”

Did she just thank me for not hurting her? Whatever you say, keep it short. No diatribes. She has learned to feel unsafe all her life. Don’t pooh-pooh her. Five vocalized pauses. Hell, she felt unsafe saying she felt safe.

“Emi, you should expect kindness from every man you meet and flush the mean ones from the bathroom of your heart. Most of us man-types are nice. Hard to believe, I know. Sadly, you have been treated poorly by the men in your past. You can now be treated nicely by the ones in your future. You should expect compassion from others and not be surprised when you receive as much. Point?”

More tears.

Oh, I know this feeling.

At the tender age of ten, I was on a train to Montreal. After an unhappy interaction with an accompanying adult, I wandered into the dining car, sat at the counter, and scoured the pastry menu. My SHIT (self-hatred index tonnage) was around DEF-CON THREE. This is the “I’m a stupid, sickening, ugly, worthless, horrible, evil, disgusting, fat, diseased animal” stage. DEF-CON THREE was where matters hung in a precarious balance as escalation to TWO (descent into chaos and personal, physical destruction) could be quick.

(What can I say? I had issues at the time. When I was seven, I used to talk to people who appeared on the wall. Made for interesting conversations.)

As I stared at the menu, any sense of mental order vanished. The eccentric, grandfatherly type behind the counter asked for my order. I panicked and froze. The gentleman wasn’t threatening, far from it. However, the fear was a bitch. My response was, no doubt, similar to Emi’s when her father confronted her. “Uh, I am, uh, sorry. I’m sorry, stupid. Not enough, uh, money. Stupid. Sorry, it’s, uh, okay. Sorry. Sorry. I don’t, uh, have…only have fifty cents. Sorry.”

I considered running away. The gentleman said, “Well, what suits your fancy, young man?”

Anxiety prevented me from replying.

He responded by smiling. “Take your time, bud.” Pause. “You look like a cinnamon roll man. Lemme heat one for you.”

“Um, I can’t. I don’t have, um, enough. Stupid. Stupid. Fifty cents. I…”

He put his arm on my shoulder. “Well, amigo, we can spot you a dime.”

I was overwhelmed but managed not to cry. He responded with a pat on my back while confusion reigned between my ears.

After a few minutes, the gentleman presented me with a giant cinnamon roll and a glass of milk. He sat with me for a few minutes and talked to me. I don’t remember what he said. It must have been nice. I quickly relaxed and enjoyed the food. After putting fifty cents on the counter, I received a laugh and a response that I should keep my money for future niceties.

I glanced at Emi, and we shared smiles.

For these past couple of days, I was never the pilot. Not the flight attendant. Not the father. Definitely not the father. I was, and am, the quaint, charitable, tender gentleman behind the counter offering her small kindnesses when she felt none were entitled or forthcoming.

Our hero isn’t dancing down the aisle or celebrating a great victory. She is just relieved. And, glad to be alive.

The way I was in that dining car.

She deserves this moment.

Eventually, I broke the silence. “I think it’s time for me to inflict my charm and goodwill upon the poor citizens of Kyoto. I heard there’s a place to skydive near the Sea of Japan. Any truth to that rumor?”

According to Emi, there was.  In her estimation, it would be a two-or-three-day adventure. She looked me in the eye, not a natural act for her, and asked, “May I stay here until we return to America?”

No “ums.” She is feeling comfortable.

“Sounds like a fine idea.”

Hell, she’s paying for the place.

“Drew, live music is something you enjoy, is it not?”

“It is.”

“There is a concert this evening. It may be one you would enjoy.”

I doubted that. I took an instant dislike to modern Japanese music. It sounded like someone playing a flute over lousy disco music. Their traditional music was easier to admire than enjoy to my untrained ear.

I replied, “Well, hmmm, I’m not sure…”

“The band is called Public Image Limited.”

“PFFFFFFFT!” As he spits his coffee in various directions.

Emi grinned. “It seems you have heard of this band.”

“They’re playing here? You must be kidding.” Pause. “You’re not kidding. And they’re playing here. In Kyoto. Tonight. Oh, hell yes.”

Public Image Limited was the last band I’d have expected to see in straight-laced, provincial Kyoto.

Public Image Limited was led by Johnny Lydon, who did business as Johnny Rotten when he fronted the Sex Pistols. In the mid-seventies, he was the unwilling spokesperson for England’s punk rock movement and considered public enemy number one because he made fun of the Queen. He also said rude things about the monarchy on British television.

His and Public Image Limited’s music reflected the band members shockingly well. They were everything Kyoto wasn’t: confrontational, loud, irreverent, and aggressively obnoxious.

Would Emi like to go to the concert? I asked her that.

“I am not certain.”

“Well, what music does Emi enjoy when she’s at home he asks her knowingly.”

“I very much like George Benson. And Chuck Mangione. “Feels so Good” is my favorite song. Is this…”

“No.”

She laughed.

“Well, it’s time to get out and stroll the mean streets of Kyoto. Wish me luck. What’s on your to-do list?”

Emi intended to talk with her grandfather on her mother’s side. He was a remarkable ally. Plus, he detested her father. The hatred was mutual. The two hadn’t spoken in over a decade and found that arrangement profoundly suitable. He was also her generous benefactor and loyal protector.

She had spoken to him over the weekend. She told him about the current state of affairs and the latest dysfunction with her father. Her grandfather assured her that if the father was stupid enough to call, then he, her grandfather, would nail Dear Old Dad’s penis to the floor.

As I was about to walk out the door, the phone rang. I knew Emi called and hung up on me minutes before she arrived at my door. That was the only call I received.

I gave Emi a suspicious look. “Does anyone else know we’re  here?” She responded with a mystified headshake. “Must be the front desk.” I hesitated. “Were you at your family’s house when you called before coming over?” I received an embarrassed head nod. Emi wondered if Douche-Bag Dad might have found a list of numbers called from the house after dinner, and he was now prepared to collect Number One Daughter.

I didn’t answer the call but stopped by the hotel’s lobby and confirmed with the young woman at the front desk that someone who, based on her description, sounded as though Dishonorable Father-San called and was quite anxious to speak with me. And, yes, now that I mentioned it, the caller gave every indication that he’d be visiting the hotel soon. (The woman spoke English, so our conversation didn’t include drawings, cartoon noises, or ridiculous gestures.)

The woman’s name was Miho, which, when uttered, sounds pretty derogatory. Her father ran the place. I explained Emi’s plight and asked Miho if she was interested in performing a bit of theater. A little something that might encourage Dishonorable Father-San to shove off. Permanently.

She was. Miho was an extreme militant in her own country as she felt women shouldn’t be abused, sentenced to lifelong servitude, and otherwise treated like dogs.

At the time, this was considered a deranged attitude and merited psychiatric intervention.

At least, that’s what the men thought.

I spoke with Miho in a mock conspiratorial tone. “When the guy knocks on the door, I’ll eventually answer while wearing a bathrobe. I won’t let him in. I’ll tell him I’m busy entertaining a guest. No doubt we’ll banter for a while. When you hear me cough, wait twenty seconds, peer your head around so he can see you, and ask if everything’s okay. He’ll think we’re a couple, and, hopefully, he’ll go away.”

I offered to pay Miho for her time and effort. She declined, saying she’d do it just out of principle.

Miho found someone to cover the front desk, and we went to my room, where I explained our little production to Emi.

She started making excuses for her father and mumbled something about facing the fornicating little jackass and making amends. I interrupted. “That would be one ‘no.’ There’s no way he’s waddling in here.”

Emi started rationalizing away her father’s abusive behavior. I cut her off. “Again. No. Sorry, but no.”

Emi was on another of her monologues. This time, the topic was asking for Dishonorable Father-San’s forgiveness.

After futile attempts to speak over her, I gently squeezed her lips together.

“Emi. If you keep talking, then I’ll be forced to get the duct tape, which is an aspect of intimate relations we haven’t attempted. Yet. Please listen, or do I have to go to Gag-Balls-R-Us and make a suitable purchase?”

The poor girl looked bewildered to the core.

I spoke quietly. “Okay. Right. The days of being the guy’s punching bag are over. Fini. Finito. Basta. Punching bag all gone. Bye-bye punching bag. Never coming back.”

I suggested she hide or leave for a while. She hid in the bathroom.

It took less than fifteen minutes before we heard pounding on the door. I waited—more pounding. I yelled something about coming back much later.

“Mr. Lowry! Forgive this intrusion, but it is imperative for us to speak about a matter of urgency!” He said more, but I couldn’t understand anything.

I responded with, “Um, right. Yes. Right-o. Be there, uh, in a moment. Right.” I tried to look more disheveled than usual.

After making noises of someone pulling himself together, I opened the door, and there, looking wild-eyed and rather looped, was Emi’s small and lamentable father.

We bowed. I tried to look confused and, while awkwardly adjusting my robe, fired the first shot. “Is Emi okay? Did something happen?”

Father-San thought these were two outstanding questions; perhaps I would know the answers better than he.

I kept a look that was three parts bewildered, two parts bemused, one part concerned, and a dash of annoyance. “Had it in my mind that she was staying with you.”

“Yes, Mr. Lowry. Yes. You are correct in your assumption. However, she left my residence Thursday night.” He tried looking over my shoulder to see if there was any sign of Emi.

“Thursday? After our dinner. Missing since Thursday Vanished? Have the police found any leads? ”

Dishonorable Father-San said the police hadn’t provided any insight because they were not contacted. “My daughter left on her own volition without announcing a destination, Mr. Lowry. It is a matter to be managed within the family. We have wondered if she was here with you.”

“My daughter.” He won’t say her name.

I shook my head. “She’s not.”

He was doing his best to look past me. “Mr. Lowry, did she indicate anyone she might contact while in Japan? Please. This is of great importance.”

Oh, he’s gonna love this.

I said, “Before we left the States, she looked forward to spending time with her grandfather. Quite excited by the prospect. She thinks so highly of him, as you no doubt know. Has him on a pedestal. Presumably, she’s not there.”

This information was not received well. He didn’t say anything, but the veins in his neck appeared with a vengeance. “Thank you, Mr. Lowry, for this information.” A pause. Another look over my shoulder. Then, a disapproving stare. “I want to understand why you presume she’s not with her grandfather.”

I shrugged and, with a tone that showed that I no longer believed dear old Dad had any grasp of the obvious, “Well, I’m sure you contacted him already.”

“We have tried.”

After a minute of bantering, the father asked if he could come in and have a look as he promised his wife as much.

“I’m sure she’s visiting her grandfather. She continually  talked about him during our trip over here.”

His face turned red. “Yes, Mr. Lowry. I fully understand her feelings toward the gentleman. There is no need to elaborate.”

“I’m sure Emi is there now. “

The father continued staring past me.

I smirked. “She’s not here. Believe me. She is not here. No how, no way.”

He looked mighty small. “If I might have a quick look inside…”

I gave him an embarrassed smile before uttering my favorite version of “no” in Japanese. “I am sorry, but that may not be possible now. I do apologize.”

I coughed. Dog-Wipe Dad pushed back, asking why he couldn’t take a look around.

I gave him a head tilt. “Well, I am entertaining a guest, and it…”

Miho stepped into full view. She was in a robe that she held tightly, giving the impression that she wasn’t wearing anything else. That was a clever touch. She stared at the father with a frightening look of hatred and, in an un-Japanese manner, barked, “Is everything okay, Drew?  Who are you?” Pause. “What’s so urgent that you have to interrupt us? Maybe you can come back tomorrow.”

Dishonorable Father-San did not appreciate Miho’s attitude and had his undies in a severe knot over some random woman urinating on his splendor.  Miho didn’t take her eyes off the father.

I stepped into the hall, partially closed the door, turned to Father-San, and said, in a very undiplomatic manner, “That’s why. My friend is here. Emi is not. I hoped to maintain my friend’s privacy. I trust you understand. Check with her grandfather. I’m sure that’s where Emi is. I’m equally certain this is where she isn’t.”

Dad was beside himself, what with being dumped upon by, in his sacred opinion, two lowlifes: a female and an American, Round-Eyed, Pig-Dog. Livid but unwilling to lose face over the matter, he mumbled something about understanding my current circumstance and took off.

I waited a few minutes before closing the door.

I turned to Miho. “You deserve an Academy Award. That was brilliant. He’s in shock. Can I be your agent? I’m willing to beg.”

It was a small act on Miho’s part, but it changed everything for Emi.

Her world turned, and the sun rose.

I wish I tracked down that old gentleman from the train. To say thank you.

We paid Miho proper homage. I asked if we could take her to dinner. She declined, saying the relief on Emi’s face was compensation enough.

Playing it safe, Emi moved her suitcase, its contents, and any sign of her presence to the front desk in case Dear Old Dad managed to slither his way into the room.

We decided it would be best to find another hotel the following day.

The next issue that loomed was the concert. Would Emi like to attend the Public Image Limited concert and suffer through music she’d loath? Well, yes. Having reviewed her options, Emi would like to go to a concert to see how society’s underbelly acts when it’s not adequately supervised.

We went to dinner, which was superb. It was in a large bowl. Dinner, that is. There was a hell of a lot going on in the bowl. Other than the rice, I couldn’t identify anything in it. The bowl, that is.

Got a lot of rice in Japan.

I believe I’ve mentioned this before.

You should know these things.

Emi paid for dinner and concert tickets. In truth, her grandfather paid. He insisted. Well, according to Emi, he insisted.

The concert venue resembled a conference room at the Sheraton Hotel in Des Moines, Iowa.

As we approached the building, I experienced my first official sighting of certified, 100% Japanese Bad-Asses. A group of eight or nine surrounded a ghetto-blaster that was playing “Sex, and Drugs, and Rock and Roll.” Wearing clothes with strategic tears, they snarled, pushed and shoved one another, glared at passersby, smoked cigarettes, and tried so hard to look like members of a street gang.

I took one look at them and laughed. Loudly. I couldn’t help it. They looked like a parody of the Jets in West Side Story.

The members stood, stared at me, and tried to be intimidating, which caused me to laugh more. I could have sworn the Head Bad Ass wore a clip-on nose ring.

Emi was doing her best to stifle a laugh. It was a battle she lost.

I composed myself long enough to say, “I’m sorry, fellas. Keep up the good work.”

They looked bewildered for a few seconds before turning back to the blaster.

Predictably, the concert started on time. The crowd expected the Sex Pistols and had no clue what to make of Public Image Limited. It didn’t matter. Maria Callas could have been on stage. It still didn’t matter. People would have slam danced the night away to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

The audience members had no clue what Johnny Lydon was singing. I doubt they knew any of the songs. But, as I say, those were the least of their concerns. They were there to act like rebellious punks for a couple of hours, and nothing would stand in their way.

Emi stood in the back and watched the behavior of her fellow citizens. She reminded me of young parents looking at their children having meltdowns in the middle of a public library.

“Well, isn’t Emi proud to watch the future leaders of Japan acting stupid? I’m sure their parents are thrilled.”

No. No, she was not. “This is not, um, representative of, um…I am concerned, um, for…um…I am troubled.”

“They’re just blowing off some steam. How often do they have this chance? Shall we join them?”

Emi smiled. “I am not certain how this might be accomplished.”

She claimed to enjoy the music more than she initially thought. “It is amusing to view people pretending to be someone else.”

After the concert, we worked our way back from whence we came. Emi was unusually chatty until we spotted the hotel.

We stopped. She was scared that her father was hiding inside and preparing to ambush her. I suggested she wait inside a convenience store and wait for me to see if Dishonorable Father-San was lurking, although I tended to doubt it. Emi tended not to doubt it.

Once I inserted the key into the room door, the clown barged around the corner in a stupor. I didn’t bow.

“How long have you been oiling around the corridors?”

“Mr. Lowry. Good evening. My concern has escalated. We have not received a sign of my daughter’s whereabouts. I must know. She called this hotel shortly before she disappeared.”

The maggot still won’t say her name.

I stood in front of the door. I made every effort to look unamused. “Well, Emi knows I’m staying here. Emi may very well have called. I don’t know. If I understood, Emi didn’t just disappear. She told you she was leaving, and then she left.”

“Your understanding is a correct one. This has been communicated, Mr. Lowry.”

“It has, indeed.”

He’s plotzed. Drunk as a skunk.

We stood in silence.

Dad finally spoke. “I am curious as to your lack of anxiety in finding her. It seems you are not concerned for her well-being. Is my daughter in your room, thus explaining your lack of worry for her?”

“No.”

“Mr. Lowry…”

“Look!” I had enough. “You told me you were managing this in-house. Fine. If it’s a family matter, then I’m excluded. Did you check with her grandfather?”

“We have many unanswered questions…”

“So, you didn’t confirm with him.”

“Would she be in your room?”

“No.”

“I hope to verify this though.”

“No.”

“Your refusal is most troubling. I am left to believe that my daughter may be there. I must request your understanding. As her father, I should be granted access to confirm your assertion.”

I raised my voice. It didn’t sound like Lurch on speed, but I was getting there. “As the room’s occupant, I should be allowed my privacy. However, I’ll give you a minute to look around if you promise not to bother me once you have established that Emi is not here. Will you make that promise?”

Reluctantly, he agreed.

I opened the door, and he slowly entered. I said, “Perhaps Emi is visiting her grandfather. Perhaps Emi is with friends.” After a pause. “Perhaps Emi doesn’t want to be found. Please don’t touch anything. Thank you.”

He walked in and slowly inspected the room. On the center table was a small bouquet in a vase. A neatly written note was on full display in front of the vase:

“Hi, Drew. I had a great time. Keep in touch. I hope your friend is okay. M.”

Oh, Miho. You are that good. You win two parking passes to last night’s hockey game.

“Yes. That was the young lady you met last time you stopped by, unannounced and uninvited.”

Dog Wipe Dad must have had rather a lot of Sake as it took him a long time to read the note. There was no sign of anything Emi-related.

He slurred something about making great sacrifices to support his errant Number One Daughter.

This miserable, fornicating little maggot is the biggest narcissist I’ve had the displeasure to meet.  

I snapped, “Kindly make haste. I want to go to sleep.”

He slowly wobbled around for a minute, closely inspecting the room. He stopped directly in front of the window and glared into the darkness. “Mr. Lowry, I have come to believe I allowed my darling child to travel much too far. It saddens me to say this. She wishes to bring attention to herself.”

He adopted a troubled tone. I accepted that he was an intellectual filled with an incalculable amount of excrement and Sake. Happily, when it comes to uncovering the pony under all the horse manure, a narcissist, even a drunk and lying one, is an easy mark. They’re fun to break, too.

Drunk Douche-Bag Dad was motionless. He kept his dull-eyed stare at the window. “It is through discipline that we accept the resistance of authority with grace and courtesy. Instead, she has ruined the serenity of our family. I trust you did not encourage this behavior.”

“I didn’t. My guess is that you provided all the motivation necessary. You provided some reason for her to see you. I wonder if you provided a reason for her to leave.”

He shook his head to say he didn’t care for my impertinence. He lost his balance and stepped backward but remained transfixed at the window. “I recommend you not presume you have any insight in this matter, Mr. Lowry.”

“Thank you so much for the suggestion, but I’ll presume whatever I damn well please.” Pause. “She’s not out there. She’s not in here, either. She may have left the country.”

You’ve been looking for a missing person and have just discovered that it’s you who’s missing. You now realize that the damage you inflicted on your daughter is irreversible.

The truth is that only a tiny and hideous man would hurt a little girl or a grown woman.

I know you’ll take every conceivable step to convince yourself and others that Emi is to blame for your misery.

But there’ll always be a part of you that knows otherwise. It will start as a small voice that reminds you. Be assured it’s gonna get loud. Your ears will bleed.

Here’s another truth: it’s all your fault. Your conscience, such as it is, won’t allow you to forget.

Not entirely.

As that voice becomes a scream, the man you see in the mirror will get smaller and uglier. And all the damn Sake in Japan won’t stop the avalanche.

I’ve seen it. Pain, bitterness, hatred, and isolation will take over and eat you alive. You will die much sooner than you hoped. And there’s not one fucking thing you can do about it.

The rock slide has just started because it has finally dawned on you that your lovely daughter dropped you down a hole you’ll never crawl out of.

She’s gone for good.

You’ll never see each other again. Not in any mutual sense. She may show up for your funeral. She may not.

Speaking of death, you’ll die alone because bitter, hateful old men are such a bore.

There’s not a fucking thing you can do about that, either.

Dear Old Dad turned to me. His eyes were red. I thought he might pretend to cry. The last act of a narcissist. “I wish for my daughter to return.”

I took an icy tone. “Her name is Emi. And she probably won’t. You’ll have to live with that.”

He looked offended.

He spewed something about his requirement for her obedience to his family.

I shrugged. “You know, I’m not sure that’s your shot to call anymore.”

“It would seem that you know quite a bit about my daughter’s attitude in this matter.”

“Yes, it would seem so.”

“Mr. Lowry, do you have a family?”

“Irrelevant. You have a family. I presume that you now have one fewer people in it. However, you’ll have memories of her. That may be all you have. And a few photographs, I guess.”

“Mr. Lowry! How can you…”

“You promised to leave me alone after verifying your daughter, Emi, is not here. As you can see, she’s not. I want you to go. If I see Emi, I’ll tell her you inquired about her.”

“If we discover that you have kidnapped her, the consequences will be horrific for you.”

“Should you break your promise and harass me further, you’ll risk hotel management calling the police and asking them to remove you from the premises. I thought you should be the first to know. Not that I will be here, of course. With any luck at all, our paths won’t cross again. Good night. Good-bye.”

He ambled toward the door, acting as though I had humiliated him.

Now you know how she feels.

His balance left a lot to be desired. He opened the door and turned to me. “I hoped you cared for my family.”

“Please leave.”

I watched him stumble into the night, a lost and delusional man with no redeemable qualities.

None that I could think of, at any rate.

I collected Emi from the convenience store.

“You were bang-on about your father. He was lingering around. He promised not to return, but he was rather shit-faced. I’m not sure he’ll remember. Let’s find another hotel tomorrow.”

She was silent. She began to smolder as I gave her the details about Father-San’s visit. Her face reddened as her anger escalated. When we entered the hotel room, I stopped recounting her father’s visit. “You know, the best revenge might be to do something fun while your father wallows in his torment. Think of something fun. We can indulge to our heart’s content. Think about it. I gotta powder my nose.”

Not that I needed a bathroom run. I just needed a lot of booze to avoid an unhealthy case of sobriety. After the standard breath freshening process, I returned.

Did Emi think of something she’d like to do, I wondered?

As a matter of fact, yes, she did think of something. This time, though, she would be the pilot.

My oh my. Someone has gained more than a bit of confidence.

Be…gentle…with…me.

Oh, yeah. The discipline. We’ll need to remember the discipline this time.

Happy Valley, here we come.

No pun intended.

—END OF CHAPTER FOUR—

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