Free The Electrical Field by Kerri Sakamoto

face, that homely face. I saw how false the picture was. Tam and Kimi huddled in the middle, Chisako at their side. In earlier days. Pitched to one side as the timer clicked in, Yano could be a family friend, a visitor, even a distant uncle, except for the terrible resemblance between father and daughter.
    I looked into his eyes as hard as I could—Yano’s eyes that could be unreachable, angry.
Look within Buddha’s deep waters to be healed, to forgive.
This phrase came into my head from long ago, from Reverend Hashizume when I was a girl in camp. To forgive what? Wherever he was, Yano had done nothing, that much I knew.
    At a glance, they were a family, despite the stiffness, the space between their bodies. They were nihonjin, after all. But from that very first day four years ago, they were odd, even to me. It was in early December, the kind of still day when the cold seems to suck the heat from your bones with itsdryness; about five in the afternoon. I remember the time because I’d just checked the clock and made a mental note to serve Papa his dinner in one hour, as usual, expecting Stum within the next half-hour.
    The four of them had come out of their car, the same navy Pontiac, newer and shinier then. Yano struggled with the front door lock for a moment, then Chisako led Tam and Kimi in, eight or nine at the time. They must have been hungry and tired from their journey, wherever they’d come from. They took nothing inside except for Chisako with her handbag and small vanity case. I kept an eye out as I made dinner, walking out to the living-room for one thing or another.
    When Stum arrived, he stopped on the porch to look at the orange U-Haul across the electrical field, all the while holding the door open to the brittle cold.
    “Hayaku, hayaku!” I hurried him in, briskly shutting the door. I was a little more buoyant then; I had more energy. He went to the window with his coat and boots still on.
    “Who are they?” he asked. I heard the boyish anticipation in his voice, the bit of hopefulness that some life might come to our lonely neighbourhood. His emotions seemed more pure then, untainted. He was less guarded and his sweetness shone through in simple ways, daily. He studied the blue Pontiac parked there with the U-Haul hitched behind it. The car sat low to the driveway, packed as it was with a jumble of items. It was impossible to discern more from this distance.
    “Nihonjin,” I said abruptly, walking away.
    “What?” He was jittery. Excited even.
    “Take off your boots,” I scolded. The snow he’d trekked in was melting into my carpet.
    “How do you know, ne-san? Are you sure?” He struggled to kick off his boots in the hallway. His nose was running.
    “A family,” I added, handing him a tissue. I could not be wrong about them being Japanese. There were telltale signs. I took Yano for a nisei right off, with the U-Haul, the toughness, everything do-it-yourself. Chisako’s walk, the way she held her head slightly tilted and down; her wearing a dress instead of slacks, even for a day of moving, in winter. I knew she was from Japan. Later she would alter her walk, taking bigger and straighter steps, striding with her head held high, no doubt mimicking other women she saw. But before long she reverted to her old ways and gestures, when she came to understand how attractive they could be, tilting her head down and stepping daintily.
    All that evening, Stum and I watched out the window for some sign, but nothing moved. As night fell, the house remained dark.
    “Maybe the power’s not on yet,” Stum offered. His eyes followed the wires from the house to the electrical towers streaming over the field.
    The next morning, as I dusted the windowsill, I spotted Keiko Nakamura from two blocks over, walking in her way, which was then lithe and athletic, even eager, you might say, springing off her muscular calves. Her hair was long and sleek, the fashion for young mothers then. She followed the