Christine went up the front walk until she could see part of the old man’s face. “Weren’t you at bowling the other night?”
“I was. My name’s Hiro Takata.”
Christine introduced herself and sat on his stoop, resting her chin in her hands to filter the strong cigar smoke. “You knew Slade’s father?”
He nodded. “Daniel used to bowl with us, back before his wife died and the mill exploded. Kind of lost himself after that. Couldn’t get him to bowl or come out for an evening smoke.”
“Was that the first time he tried to kill himself?” Her question, a whisper, seemed to echo down the street.
“That I know of? Yep.” He took a deep drag on the cigar and blew smoke toward the sky. “You planning on marrying that boy? He needs someone.”
“He’s... There’s... It’s not like that.” What their relationship was, she didn’t know. Just because she loved him didn’t mean he felt the same depth of feeling or that there weren’t still obstacles in their path. Loving Slade wouldn’t be easy.
“I was put in a camp here in California during the Second World War. Saw a lot of hatred based on the shape of my eyes.” Hiro’s voice hollowed and hardened, until it was darker than the night. “Saw my mother shrivel up and die during four years of internment. Takes a lot out of a man to see death.”
Christine reached out and gently squeezed his hand. It was no larger than hers, the skin a combination of smooth calluses and age-roughened wrinkles.
“I know how folks in town see me. I’m their mortician,” he said. “They laugh about how I can look at a corpse and see dignity and beauty. They think it’s morbid. But it’s how I honor my mother. Of honoring the life someone lived, no matter how they died. Dwelling on the end—on how they died—means dwelling on guilt and sadness.”
“Christine?” It was Slade, standing on the sidewalk, looking lost and alone. He’d buttoned up his shirt and put his tie back on.
“Good night, Hiro.” She released his hand and stood.
“Ha, no one your age calls me that. To them, I’m Old Man Takata.” He chuckled.
“Good night, Old Man Takata.” She waved, sucking in fresh air.
“I heard voices.” Slade said, falling into step with her. “Takata can talk your ear off if you let him.”
“I enjoyed talking to him. He seems lonely.” And he seemed to have some good insight about Slade.
Slade smoothed his tie. “I thought you’d be home by now.”
“What? Crying into my pillow?” The jagged hurt that he’d let her leave resurfaced, only to be replaced by the gentler idea of loving him. “Were you coming to check up on me?”
“Yes.” He slung his arm over her shoulder, warm and tempting, tempting her to let things be, to ask no questions. “Don’t get any ideas. I’m just walking my friend home.”
“Right, because you don’t deserve to be happy ever again.” Before speaking with Slade’s neighbor, she would’ve let the edge cut through her tone. Now the words were softened with love and understanding. She knew he wasn’t the same man he’d been the day his father died. She knew he’d never give up on life again. But he’d given up on love.