Once the priest had finished, the man from the funeral home reappeared. He had all kinds of documents and pamphlets for us. All sorts of things had to be decided for the wake — flowers, refreshments, a whole range of qualities and quantities to be considered. By the time everything had calmed down, it was late at night. After the priest left, our aged guests went home one or two at a time, until the only ones remaining were the closest relatives. There were tissues scattered across the tatami. When I went to pick them up they were wet. I gathered them and tossed them in the trash, along with a few discarded candy wrappers. My parents were supposed to come before the wake the following evening. Tomiko sighed. “It was hard when Grandma passed, too, but Grandpa took care of everything . . .” She said the same thing a few times over, but by the end was whispering so softly I could barely hear what she was saying. Her sister ran over to hug her. “We should be grateful. He wasn’t sick for long. It’s better this way, not spending a long time sick in bed. Pneumonia — most people who make it to old age die of pneumonia. What matters is whether or not you suffer before the end.” “I know. It just happened so fast . . .” Tomiko kept talking, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying. Her sister was upbeat. “People that age hope to go quickly. Remember what it was like with Grandma? Living like that, not even conscious, for as long as she did . . . At least he had his health, right up to the end. He could get around on his own — he stayed sharp, too, mentally.”
Then Tomiko looked right at me. I looked back at her. Grandpa watering the plants flashed in my mind. The sun was behind him, so I couldn’t see his face — only his teeth. Only a few hours after dying, his dark skin had clouded white. It was almost glowing. We exchanged glances for a moment, then Tomiko spoke. “You’re right,” she said, “you’re right.” I got up to make tea for our guests. I could smell the six chrysanthemums in the wide-mouthed cup sitting by the sink. Each stalk was still hard with a life all its own. For the first time, I started to wonder if my brother-in-law would come to pay his respects. Of course he knew what was happening. People had been coming in and out of the house all day, and the smell of incense had practically filled the neighborhood. Even if he didn’t get along with the rest of the family, he could hardly hang around behind the house, acting like this had nothing to do with him. Once I’d made the tea and served it to everyone, I quietly headed out back. The shed was dark. Maybe he was sleeping. I put my hand on the sliding door and rattled it. Locked. I’d barely touched the door, but the whole shed shook. It smelled like mildew. Looking over at the old well, the metal grill was missing — and in its place was a large concrete block partly covered with moss. I tried the door again, then knocked. No response. There was bright red rust on my fingers. The handle was covered in dust. The air around me was full of children’s voices and shrill cries and the smell of old men and women. They washed over me, then slipped away. Once I was back inside, Tomiko was sitting exactly the way she had been. Relatives were getting ready to go home for the night. My father-in-law stood up and bowed.
“It doesn’t matter what you’re going through, the stomach wants what it wants. We should eat something . . .” When Tomiko finally got up, she looked in the fridge. She pulled out what had been a green onion, the tip brown and withering from days of neglect. She held it up and gave me a wry smile. I smiled back. “I guess it’s too late for this one.” I left and went into the altar room to collect the empty teacups. My husband was next to Grandpa, in a daze, sitting cross-legged with his eyes on his phone. His fingers were moving slower than usual. My father-in-law was inside, resting. “What kind of grandfather was he?” I asked as I loaded the cups onto a tray. My husband looked at me with surprise. “Huh?” “Your grandpa. What kind of grandfather was he?” “Grandpa?” My husband put his phone on the tatami, rubbed his hands together for a second or two, then grabbed his phone and started moving his fingers. “I used to think he was scary. But I remember, when I got into college, he was so happy that he gave me 300,000 yen. ‘Don’t tell your mom,’ he said. In cash, fresh bills — not that I had them for long . . .” “What did you get?” “I don’t remember. Probably nothing special.” “What did he like to do?” “Grandpa? For fun? Well, we went fishing a few times, but I don’t think he liked it all that much. It was a little awkward, really. We never caught anything.” I looked down at Grandpa, then up at his wife. “What makes you ask?” “Nothing.” When I went back to the kitchen, Tomiko had chopped up some onion. Pouring soy sauce into a pot, she said, “He was a good dad.”
We had somen in hot soup — though I wasn’t sure if this would be considered dinner or a late-night snack. While we ate, Tomiko blew her nose again and again. “Dad’s not eating?” “He said he’ll have some later.” As usual, my husband wouldn’t put his phone down, even when holding his chopsticks. Once he was done with his soup, he stood up, cracked his neck, then went back into the altar room. “What about a bath?” “Later.” I finished eating, put my husband’s bowl in my own, and carried them to the sink. “Just leave them like that. I’ll do it.” “It’s fine, I can do it.” “No, really. I’ll do it right now,” Tomiko said, but she wasn’t getting up. I wet the sponge under the faucet and looked at the chrysanthemums leaning against each other in the cup. I couldn’t smell them over the green onions. I washed everything in the sink. “Sorry,” I heard Tomiko say. I didn’t say anything back. The bowls we’d just used, the bowls with strings of natto inside that looked as though they’d been there for a couple of days, the light-colored china cups we’d used for tea — all of them were handpicked by Tomiko, or maybe even by Grandma. I turned the water up a little and washed away the bits of onion and tea leaves in the sink. As water sprayed out of the faucet, the chrysanthemums jostled beside me. Their smell hit me again. For some reason, my husband struck the bell. Through the vent, I could hear my brother-in-law laughing. I thought I could hear another voice, too. When I looked back at Tomiko, she was resting her cheek in her palm, eyes closed and drifting off to sleep. I watched her back rise and fall. She’d probably be asleep for a while. After washing the dishes, I went out back again. No one was there. The shed was dark. Same as before. I tried the door. After a moment’s resistance, it opened. The smell hit me right away. Dust and mildew. It was dark inside, but I could see all kinds of shapes, stacked up, against the walls, on the floor. It looked like no one had been there in a very long time. I could see large glass jars lined up on the floor — and something coiled up among them. It looked like there were centipedes inside the jars. Hanging from the ceiling was a bare light bulb. I tugged on the cord, but no light came on. The bulb dangled slowly overhead. When I tried a second time, something dusty rained down on me, so I ran outside. I’d only been inside for a few seconds, but when I looked at my hands and shoes they were covered in white.
Summer was coming to an end — it was already fall according to the calendar — but every day felt hotter than the last. Was it ever going to cool down? Even the cicadas were as loud as they’d been at the height of summer. Was this really unusual or was it going to be like this every year? Was the climate changing? Was this year an exception? I’d never heard of so many people dying from the heat before. I saw a dead cicada in the middle of the path. Its legs pointed to the sky, its back against the blistering black asphalt. I tilted the handlebars of my brand-new bike and aimed for the insect. I thought it was going to be dry, but it stuck to the front tire, buzzing with every rotation. Was it just air coming out of its belly or was it still alive? I kept pedaling. I hadn’t realized it when I was walking, but the path home from the store sloped upward. With every bump and dip, the 7-Eleven uniform in the basket in front of me hopped into the air. I pedaled harder. “There’s nothing to do here. We never get any customers. Still, somebody’s got to work the register.” “But what about all the children?” “What children? Everyone around here is retired. I’m sure it’d be different if we had an office building or a school around here,” said the woman with brownish hair as she stood up. “So, you’ll start tomorrow.” I got up and bowed. As soon as I left the store, the hot air and the smell of grass surrounded me. Old people in overalls were mowing the grass on the riverbank. There was something else mixed in with the thick smell of grass — something familiar, but I couldn’t place it. The plastic bottle of water I had bought after the interview was sweating, dripping all over. The green bank was red in places. Mown grass had been raked into neat piles, where there were more spots of red. They looked like spider lilies. I saw no animals, no holes, no children. When I got home and put on my uniform in front of the mirror, I couldn’t help but see Tomiko staring back at me.