THE SNOW BLANKET AND OTHER STORIES A written creative work submitted to the faculty of San Francisco State University In partial fulfillment of the requirements for 36 the Degree 'TU5 Master of Fine Arts In Creative Writing: Fiction by Yukiko Tominaga San Francisco, California Spring 2015 THE SNOW BLANKET AND OTHER STORIES Yukiko Tominaga San Francisco, California 2015 A short story collection with the theme of ‘death’. Some stories will be about death as a cultural phenomenon while others will deal directly with the death of loved ones. One component will be about the effects of the Tsunami disaster in Japan. Second component will be broader, more of a cultural overview. The third will be about the experience of the death of a loved one. I certify that the Annotation is a correct representation of the content of this written creative work. Chair, Written Work Committee Date CERTIFICATION OF APPROVAL I certify that I have read The Snow Blanket and Other Stories by Yukiko Tominaga, and that in my opinion this work meets the criteria for approving a thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirement for the degree: Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing: Fiction at San Francisco State University. A xM / I Peter Omer Professor of Creative Writing Maxine Chemoff Professor of Creative TABLE OF CONTENTS Nukegara.................................................................................................................1 Would You Tell Me What I want?........................................................................ 6 Mr. Suicide........................................................................................................... 12 Autumn Rain.......................................................................................................31 In Winter, I Smile Under the Cold Rain........................................................... 35 Scar Tissue............................................................................................................43 The Pain of Losing You.......................................................................................56 The Boy from Over the Sea.............................................................................. 69 The Death of a Fish............................................................................................78 Zaydeh’s Dream Home.......................................................................... 84 Saying Good-Bye in Another Language.......................................................... 93 The Snow Blanket................................................................................................ 99 My Father............................................................................................................. 107 Failure............................. 112 The Umpire’s Call................................................................................................120 The Myth of the Serpent..................................................................................... 126 Kobushi...............................................................................................................134 The Elephant in the Room..................................................................................139 The Book Cases...................................................................................................161 1 Nukegara We go through the forest by bicycle, among the Cicada’s full chorus. “I’ll bet we can find them easily in this place.” I speak to my son who is riding behind me, on my bicycle seat. “Yeah, but they are also brown.” He met Cicadas for the first time in this place. We live in a town where the summer is too cool for the Cicada to grow and winter too warm for sleeping. When was the last time I came home? “Don’t you worry. I used to be good at this,” I said. I probably would not have come home if not for this. I remember when my grandmother was still energetic. She loved talking to people. Other than that, she had no hobby. As soon as she finished her breakfast, she visited her friend’s house. When the noon siren echoed in the town, the front door opened and before I knew it, my grandmother was in the kitchen preparing lunch for her husband and herself. They ate lunch together; only the sound of biting into pickled cucumbers kept them company. Each dish they emptied she immediately took to the sink, washed it, still chewing her food, then sat back next to her husband. She repeated this over and over. 2 When all the dishes were clean, she said only, “I am going.” Then she left for her friend’s house to chat until the five o’clock siren rang once again. My grandfather, who was blind, often walking along the wall the whole afternoon, calling my grandmother’s name. In a Haiku, he wrote: Fine autumn day Where is my gun bullet wife This Haiku was written down by my mother with a Fude. It is still on the wall in front of my old desk, next to a faded Audrey Hepburn poster. I heard about his death three months after he’d died. My mother telephoned one night and told me the news, speaking, as if she was telling me about my childhood friend’s wedding. “When did he die?” “Three months ago. I didn’t tell you because I thought you were too busy studying. I didn’t want you to feel guilty for not being able to come home.” I never witnessed my grandfather growing weak. In my memory he still walked along the wall, calling my grandmother - bright and healthy. I was glad that I had his Haiku. My grandmother grew weaker, moved in with my parents and was now living her life as a sick old woman. According to her doctor she was very healthy, though she lived each day full of enthusiasm only to die. 3 “It might be the last time for you to see her. Come home to show your grandma her great grandson.” “That might be true, it’s his summer vacation anyway. He might enjoy it,” I said. Before the sun was up, we went to catch an elephant beetle. On the weekend we went to the amusement park with a giant pool attached to it. Everyday was a new discovery for my son. However, this was not so for my grandmother. She no longer cared if someone came to visit her. As we spoke to her, her gaze passed us as if there was something better waiting for up ahead. The only change brought to her life by our visit was that she now had to wait for the bathroom. I don’t recall her speaking, not even once during our visit. Her voice only existed in my memory. For what reason does she stay so healthy? “Let’s find a cicada.” I parked the bicycle by the sidewalk. “But I don’t see them.” “Mom can find them,” I said. Even though the Cicadas were screaming, they were invisible. I could not even find one. They have only one week to live: What kind of cicada would be suicidal enough to scream in the lowest part of a tree? If 1 do not find one my son might grow up to be a 4 man who becomes frustrated, giving up easily. I looked for a Cicada for my pride and for his bright future. “Look, there is a nukegara.” I grabbed it and showed it to him. “Is this a cicada?” “No, this is a shell which the Cicada stayed in before he became a Cicada, like the cocoon of a butterfly. It was a house for him to grow up. Hold it.” He touched it with his index finger nail. The shell rolled in my palm. “No, I don’t want.” “Why, are you scared?” “Yeah.” “It’s okay. It’s not going to move.” “I know.” “It’s rarer to find it than it is to find a Cicada.” This was a lie of course. “It’s empty. It’s creepy.” I let it fall. The brown shell settled slowly and blended in with the ground. The Cicada chorus grew louder. “Should we go?” “Yeah.” We continued our bicycle ride among the trees. 5 “Cicada lives underground for five years like a baby in a tummy. Then they come out and live in the shell then become a Cicada before flying away, so it was not a dead Cicada,” I said. “They never go back there again?” “Never.” “Why?” “Because, they can’t fit there anymore.” “Where is their home?” “They don’t have one.” “No home?” “Not anymore.” 6 Would You Tell Me What I Want? I dropped on my bed, bounced once, then landed. My dress slowly fell over my thighs and I felt a chill from the silk material. The chill continued to creep up on my tail bone, my spine, and up the back of my neck. Goose bumps chased the chill over my arms, and at the same time, the air conditioner expelled cold air, so I wrapped myself in the brand new bed cover that my brother in law had bought me. The bed and the bedding set were gifts from him to make me feel that I was a part of this family. My brother-in-law had moved his dead weight vintage oak desk, white leather reading chaise, and his civil war coin collection, out the room and replaced them with a brand new bed for me and a Winnie the Pooh crib set for my son, Alex. The sofa and desk were stacked haphazardly in the hallway, and the coin collection lay in a plastic grocery bag tossed under the desk. He had not found the time to move them into the basement. I wanted to cry and I wanted to be moved by his thoughtful gesture, but my body was too honest to produce any tears. Although this was how I felt and I couldn’t change, I still felt shame, so I thought about how I could punish myself. To stop eating his food could be one way to show my appreciation for his generosity. I could become his maid, scrubbing his toilets, taking his kids to violin lessons, or cooking for them, or I could stop eating. But for now I didn’t even have the strength to get up, so I bit my tongue, pinched my inner thigh hard and inhaled the toxic smell of the brand new bed cover. But when I felt too much pain on my thigh, I let my bite go. I failed to even make myself bleed. I glanced at the clock. In twenty minutes, my mother-in-law would come with Alex to get us. And when she came, I would have to show up in front of hundreds of people. My mother was standing in the bathroom putting on her make up.