The Salaryman's Wife(114)
“In the early fifties, he had a girlfriend here who worked in the bars. She already had one kid, but he didn’t care. They got a house together and lived like they were married. They had a baby. Evans’s name didn’t go on any birth certificate because he didn’t want his commanding officer to know.”
“Typical.” Joe nodded. “So how did he leave her?”
“His tour of duty ended and he just went back to the States, met some gal at a church picnic. They were together thirty-three years before she passed away, breast cancer, I think.”
“Did the American wife know about his first love in Japan?” I asked.
“I have no idea. The two sons might be able to help you. They’re still living in the Boston area, as the obituary says.” He handed me a blurry photocopy of a notice in the Boston Globe. Skimming it quickly, I saw no mention of Texas—it appeared Willie Evans’s entire life before and after Japan took place in Framingham, Massachusetts.
“You should call them, Rei,” Joe said, as if hearing my silent question. “You’ve got dates and other locations to check by them. There’s no need to jump to conclusions, but it’s worth acting sooner than later.”
“You’re right.” I folded the paper into my evening bag, where I caught sight of the envelope I had not returned to Hugh. “Actually, I have a letter from the father—”
Joe was practically on top of me to get it, ruining my hopes of keeping off fingerprints. “Let me see.” He looked up at O’Donnell. “There’s a Texas postmark here. Not Boston.”
“You know, he could have retired to the West…a lot of guys do, for the weather,” James O’Donnell said lamely. “I can start looking into folks from Texas. I suppose I should get going.”
“No, you’re staying for a drink and spending the night with me in Aoyama,” Joe coaxed. “After we drop the young lady off, you and I’ll paint the town red, just like we used to.”
Back in the ballroom, Jimmy O’Donnell stayed busy holding up the hors d’oeuvre table while Joe took me out on the dance floor. I had some trouble with the Blahnik heels and the fact I’d never swing-danced before. I was whirled from Joe into the arms of a small, dark man who kept telling me he’d gone to Princeton. After that came a lean young Japanese whose name I recognized as connected to a powdered soup fortune. My final partner was Molly Mason’s husband Jim, who swore he hadn’t confused me with Rie Miyazawa and wondered how the Imperial Hotel sounded for lunch next Tuesday….
I excused myself to tell Joe I was going home.
“The glorious reality of the party page has hit you, huh?” he teased. “Now you see why I lead a quiet life devoted to my business.”
“But you don’t! You’re in the Weekender at least every other issue. Tonight we had our picture taken two dozen times.”
“Not my picture. Yours,” he corrected.
“I don’t normally look like this—”
“You should from now on,” Joe said. “While you were dancing, I was spreading the word on your upcoming antiques venture. I tickled them a little about the box you sold to the museum, and the upshot is I have five gals who want appointments as soon as possible.”
“That’s wonderful.” I was unable to concentrate. “Joe, if I go home now, I can figure out my strategy for the Evans brothers. I have to call them early tomorrow morning.”
“You’re hopeless.” Joe brought my coat and escorted me outside and into a taxi, kissing me good-bye in front of a battalion of Japanese media. The taxi driver seemed ecstatic until we started moving and I directed him to drop me at the nearby Kamiyacho station. It looked cheap, I guess, for a woman wearing Hervé Léger. Still, the sale of the box had been a fluke. It could be a long wait for my next influx of cash. In the meantime, budget was going to be my mantra.
As had become my custom, I scanned the crowd exiting Minami-Senju station with me. A few motley bands of drunken men got off. Trailing a safe distance behind them, but not totally alone, I wrapped the thin leather coat around me and started over the steel pedestrian bridge for home. I waved at Mr. Waka through the window at Family Mart but didn’t go in. My feet were killing me. I wanted to get home and stick them in the bathroom sink.
My street was silent except for a drip coming from somewhere high above. Paired with my footfalls in the unusually high shoes, the sounds formed a rhythmic percussion. After a few minutes, I realized a quieter, clipped noise was marring the rhythm. I stopped, feigning a look in the window of the closed fishmonger, and it ceased.