Things Were Never the Same Afterward , livre ebook

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47 pages

English

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In every life there are moments when things change and we are never the same afterward. Sometimes we make our choices with careful consideration. Other times circumstances thrust change upon us and we must act quickly. Sometimes it is only in looking back over the space of years that we realize how a small event can cause large change. We may sometimes wonder-who might we have become if we had chosen differently. But in life, there is no going back.

Mike Trial shares twelve short stories of unforeseen circumstance—real or imagined—and the internal conflicts that change the characters, revealing their own resulting paradigm shift.

Sujets

Literary

Fiction

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Publié par	eBookIt.com
Date de parution	21 février 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781936688524
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0250€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

© 2013 Mike Trial
www.miketrialwriter.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical or by any information or storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

Published in eBook format by AKA-Publishing
Columbia. Missouri
www.AKA-Publishing.com

Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com

eBook ISBN: 978-1-936688-52-4

Also available in Trade Paper: ISBN 978-1-936688-51-7
Introduction
In every life there are moments when things change and we are never the same afterward.
Sometimes we make our choices with careful consideration. Other times circumstances thrust change upon us and we must act quickly. Sometimes it is only in looking back over the space of years that we realize how a small event can cause large change. We may sometimes wonder—who might we have become if we had chosen differently? But in life, there is no going back.
Yumoto
At one time or another, all of us dream of leaving all the stress of our present lives behind and starting a new life. Occasionally, that opportunity may actually present itself, and if it does, we must act quickly or the opportunity will pass us by. Carol and Tal are given that opportunity.
T he afternoon had turned dark as clouds blew in from the Sea of Japan, smelling like sea salt and snow. Tal and Carol stopped loading lumber into their Suzuki pick-up truck as movement up the street caught their eye.
Carol dragged Tal back into the shadow. At the other end of Yumoto village’s short main street a stranger was coming up the road on foot, a backpack on his back, sunglasses on his face. Even at a distance they could tell he was an American.
Tall shoved the last board into the tiny Suzuki pickup truck and they started for home. “He didn’t see us,” Carol said fiercely. “Let’s get back to the studio and lay low until he’s gone. He’ll never know we’re here.” They drove down the narrow track between rice fields to the empty house they’d moved into. Rural Japan had many empty houses as young people moved to the cities.
They hadn’t finished unloading the boards when Megumi’s husband appeared and told them about the stranger.
“Does he know we’re here?” Tal asked.
Satoshi bowed slightly, “Yes.”
Tal and carol exchanged glances. “What did he say?”
“He asked where Tal Roberts lived.”
Carol choked off a gasp, “They’ve found us.” She grabbed Tal in a protective hug. “At least we’ve had these last two years...”
Satoshi looked away, embarrassed by the Americans hugging each other in front of him.
“We might as well face up to it.” Tal said finally, as much to himself as to her. “I’m going to go talk to him. Find out what he knows.”
Tal ran his hand through his thinning blond hair. He was a tall rangy guy, always dressed in worn plaid shirts and jeans. He was the opposite of Carol, who was short, thick, beautiful, with dark brown hair and eastern European eyes.
Leaving Carol staring after him, Tal and Satoshi hurried down the street, the cold, wet wind tearing at them.
The wooden houses and shops they passed were empty. Megumi and her husband Satoshi ran a little store and restaurant, the only one in town. Their shop was a four-meter by four-meter room with a stove, refrigerator, a sink and two low tables on tatami mats.
Like most Japanese of their generation, they hadn’t complained when the American occupation forces confiscated their land and redistributed it. They sharecropped for the new owners during the day and ran the store in the evening. They did a good business and saved enough money to put their son through Meiji University. They knew he would never come back after graduation, and he didn’t. He took a job with the Akita city government, and only came to Yumoto for his annual visit during the Obon holiday in August.
Tal paused outside the restaurant, then ducked under the flapping blue curtains, slid the door open, and went in. He slipped his shoes off in the genkan and left them beside a pair of complicated looking hiking shoes and a worn blue North Face backpack.
The American was seated cross-legged at a table, a tall bottle of Asahi Super Dry beer and a small glass in front of him. He looked up, blue eyes behind wire rim glasses. His trimmed beard, salt and pepper like his hair, split into a grin. “Hello Tal.”
They shook hands. “Hello, Greg,” Tal said.
The wind whipped around the eaves, and the ramen pot steamed on the stove. Megumi set a bowl of steaming ramen in front of Greg. He popped his chopsticks apart and started in on the noodles. “Mind If I eat while we talk? I’m starving.”
Tal pulled over a zabuton and sat down across from Greg. “You’re about the last guy I expected to see in Yumoto.”
“Yeah,” Greg said, “Well…” He ate fast, slurping up the noodles in good Japanese style.
Megumi brought another bottle of Asahi and a small glass for Tal. He topped off Greg’s glass, and Greg did the same for him. They toasted.
“Good to see you, Greg,” Tal said, and was surprised to find he meant it.
“I’m not here by chance, you know.”
Tal laughed. “I guess not. This village is a long way out of anyone’s way.”
“Is that why you’re hiding here?”
“I don’t think of it as hiding. A new life maybe, but not hiding,” Tal said deliberately.
“Relax. I’m not here to cause problems. I’m backpacking the Tohoku circuit. I left Sendai three months ago, came around Aomori, down through Akita, on my way to Ehiji shrine. I’ll be on my way tomorrow.”
“How did you find out I was here?”
“After you disappeared, Susan hired a search service to see if—I dunno—there was a lot of confusion over the hotel fire. Pacific Life was very reluctant to pay your life insurance; the Tokyo police report was ambiguous. I did a little discreet pressuring, and they eventually paid your estate.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Greg looked at his bowl. “You renewed your pass-port. As your corporate attorney, I was able to get the American embassy to release your address to me.”
“Susan know?”
The gas heater hissed, wind buffeted the eaves and there was an occasional rattle of sleet on the sheet metal roof.
“Susan’s dead.”
One emotion chased another across Tal’s face. “I guess, in a way, I’m not surprised,” he said finally. He sat staring at the tabletop for a long time, remembering how things had once been for him and Susan.
“I wish things, had been different,” Greg said.
“So do I,” Tal said. They sat silently sipping their beer. “You can stay with us tonight,”
“Thanks,” Greg said. “You ever going back to Santa Monica?”
Tal shook his head. “Not likely, but who knows?”
Greg drank his beer in silence. When he set his glass down, Tal topped it for him.
“You’ve got some money there, you know,” Greg said quietly.
“Oh?”
“That valve design you came up with, the one with the little micro ceramic spheres? About three months after you disappeared, Syntech made us an offer on the pending patent. I negotiated the deal. Twenty six million dollars.” He shook his head. “It seems like another lifetime. I can hardly remember the satisfaction that brought me. Maybe there wasn’t any. By then, I wasn’t feeling much of anything.”
“Sorry,” Tal said, puzzled. “I feel like I should apologize for something.”
Greg started to say something, then stopped. He slurped up the last of the soup from his bowl, then slid over to a more comfortable position leaning against the wall. “Is that sleet I hear?”
Tal nodded.
“Why are you smiling?” Greg asked.
Tal rubbed his thin blonde hair. “My mind keeps looking for the Greg I remember. The intense young corporate attorney, Armani suits, Mercedes, martinis on the terrace at Abiki’s.”
“A different person. You, too, I think.”
“This town, backcountry Japan suits me.”
Greg lifted his beer glass in what was almost a toast. “You seem satisfied. You said ‘us’ a minute ago.”
“Yeah,” Tal said. “Carol’s an American from Wisconsin. We’ve been together a couple of years now. We’ve leased an empty house—lots of them around—converted part of it to a studio. She’s a painter. Me, I’m a handyman for the old folks here. When they saw the progress I’d made on our house, I could tell they wanted me to help them with their houses.” He smiled. “They are too polite to ask, so I just started doing it. I like them and I’ve learned a lot from them. They never complain, no matter how difficult things are, and I try to be like that.”
Tal laughed out loud then. “I’m the entire Yumoto city maintenance department,” he said. “I’ve repaired all their houses, this shop, their cars. None of them have any money, and I don’t want any. They give us food, supplies, the things we need. Sometimes they give us family mementos from pre-war. It breaks your heart that their kids aren’t interested in that stuff. I’ve never felt this kind of satisfaction before. I like working with wood, the linearity, the clean scent, the clarity of a job finished.” He stopped, embarrassed. “Carol and I met in Tokyo. Back when we were both different people living a different life. You remember I was over here to talk to the firm making those ceramic spheres?”
“That little Kyocera subsidiary.”
“Right. Carol was a buyer for a department store in Milwaukee.”
* * *
Tal thought he’d have the hotel bar to himself, but there was a woman, an American, sitting by herself at a table by the window overlooking the Tokyo smog, fingering her empty Compari and soda glass. When Tal passed behind her, she must have thought it was the waiter. As she looked around, their eyes met.
“Hello,” Tal said noncommittally. He slumped into a chair three tables away, ordered an Asahi Super Dry, and sat staring at the hazy sky beyond the tinted glass.
“Still hot outside?” she said, no doubt feeling, like him, that she should say something to be polite.
“Humid as July in Florida.”
“You from Florida?”
He shook his head, “No. Los Angeles, Santa Monica. You?”
“Milwaukee.”
Without preamble, they drifted into