AFTER-SHOCK           
 

Mrs Sugamo rings Ruth’s doorbell just as she’s managed to unplug the sink for the fifth time in a week. Ruth, on her knees, her hands filthy with impacted grease and garbage, can hear the bell ringing, knows who it is. For the briefest moment she considers not answering, then she hears the door creak open, hears Mrs Sugamo’s smoker’s voice braying her name.

‘Just a moment!’ she calls out, marvelling at Mrs Sugamo’s uncanny instinct for showing up at just the wrong moment.

Hastily wiping her hands on her skirt, Ruth manages a weak smile. Mrs Sugamo bares scary nicotine-stained teeth in a phoney grimace. She’s got a cigarette in one hand and a bunch of papers in the other: the neighborhood recycling committee schedule.

The place is a tip. Mrs Sugamo, of course, has taken it all in. The recessed entrance-way with its collection of filthy kids’ shoes and rainy-season mold, the empty plastic bottles, abandoned scarves, hats and jackets, school assignments, socks. Her eyes have flicked, lizard-fast, to the kitchen sink with its dishes piled high. To the wobbly table scattered with crumbs, breakfast dishes still in evidence.

‘Busy?’ she queries now, with a wicked grin and a wide gesture.

‘I’ve been doing overtime at work,’ admits Ruth, hating herself for rising to the bait. Mrs Sugamo nods. Ruth’s job is of no interest to her whatsoever. She’s let Ruth know any number of times just what she thinks of women who go out to work. Selfish – that’s what they are. Aping men – taking their jobs away. When everyone knew the most important job in the world was caring for your husband and children. And blah, blah, blah –  over the years Ruth’s learned to filter it out.

‘Husband still in America?’ Mrs Sugamo asks now with a deceptively casual air, flicking some ash behind her into the corridor and drawing deeply from her cigarette.

‘He called just last night,’ Ruth lies, ready for this one. She knows for a fact that Mrs Sugamo has spread gossip among the neighbors that her husband is gone for good. ‘He’s in Arizona,’ Ruth embellishes. If she’s going to lie, might as well go for broke.

Mrs Sugamo gapes back at her. Los Angeles she can handle, or San Francisco. New York too – she knows where that is. Anything in between the California coast and New York, however, is a huge grey area. She frowns now and drops her cigarette behind her, crushing it out with the heel of her rubber sandal. Reaching into a bag she pulls out a pair of reading glasses. Suddenly she’s all business.

‘Okay,’ she says, ‘this is your name right here.’ She thrusts the paper at Ruth and points. ‘I’ve got you down for ten to twelve on Saturday.’

Ruth nods despondently. ‘Yes, I can read my name – ’ she murmurs. She’s told Mrs Sugamo repeatedly that she can read Japanese, that anyone would certainly know how to read her own name after fifteen years in Japan, but she might as well have saved her breath for all the good it’s done.

Mrs Sugamo is frowning in concentration. ‘Now you’ll be working with – let’s see – ’  She frowns again and holds the paper further away from herself, squinting.  Ruth waits with growing impatience. The kids’ll be home from school any minute, she hasn’t even begun to get started on dinner, and she really needs to try and find the metal net for the sink that the kids have gone and lost, or she’ll be unplugging it again in no time. . .

‘Hang on,’ says Mrs Sugamo, moving the paper into better light, trying in vain to make out the characters. ‘These glasses of mine. . .’ she murmurs, her voice trailing off.

Ruth leans forward and looks at the name next to hers. ‘Hibikiyama,’ she tells Mrs Sugamo a little smugly, tapping the paper with one finger. ‘That’s who I’ll be working with.’

Mrs Sugamo gapes at her for a moment, still frowning. Ruth suddenly feels ashamed. ‘The first character’s smudged,’ she admits, ‘and the light is bad.’

Mrs Sugamo is putting her glasses away. She’s not going to let Ruth have this tiny triumph. Ruth has often felt that she could recite The Tale of Genji for Mrs Sugamo, and she still wouldn’t manage to impress her. With Mrs Sugamo, you can’t win. Six years ago one of the kids put glass bottles in the can recycling receptacle and for the next three years Mrs Sugamo reminded her of this on every possible occasion. And the time she set off the fire alarm by mistake, well that just made Mrs Sugamo’s day! ‘How’s that fire alarm?’ she’ll still ask, when she’s in a playful mood. ‘Set it off lately?’

Mrs Sugamo has turned to leave, when all of a sudden the floor under them begins to shake violently. The glasses on Ruth’s shelves begin to rattle and there is a crash as something heavy hits the floor. There is a sudden sharp tang of vinegar. Earthquake! they both shout together. Their eyes meet: Mrs Sugamo’s face is convulsed in terror.

At least they’re in the right place, here under the door frame. All Ruth can think about is the kids. Where are they? Near some building with loose plaster? Crossing through the crowded station under a tangle of wires ready to come tumbling down? Mrs Sugamo and she have moved together instinctively. The shaking and rumbling goes on for a little longer, then gradually dies down, with the odd rattle and roll growing weaker and less frequent until, like a baby crying itself to sleep, it finally stops altogether.

‘Ah, that was frightening,’ breathes Mrs Sugamo.  She takes a deep breath and lets it out. ‘Better get back before the after-shocks,’ she says, her voice still shaky.

Ruth is moved – touched by having seen this very human side to Mrs Sugamo. ‘You take care now – ’ she begins to say, but Mrs Sugamo, shrugging her bag over her shoulder, interrupts her. ‘Better get into that kitchen,’ she says haughtily, ‘and clean up that broken glass and vinegar.’

She begins to walk away, then turns and calls over her shoulder. ‘You shouldn’t keep glass bottles high up on a shelf like that, you know.’