I woke up to the loud cries of the cicadas. When we went to sleep the night before, it was still raining. It was so muggy that we shut the windows and left the AC running when we went to bed. Why were the cicadas so loud? I looked at the clock. My alarm wasn’t set to go off for a long time. My husband was sleeping next to me, turned the other way. His shirt had slid halfway up his back, revealing a few white spots that looked like pimples. I crawled out of bed and looked out the window. It was hard to believe it had been raining the night before. The weather was beautiful now. Grandpa was out in the garden, watering the plants. What I thought had been cicadas was the sound of the hose. I felt as if my knees were about to give. Grandpa wore the same outfit as always: a straw hat, gray long-sleeve shirt, and pants. I suppose the best way to water the garden is to get started before the sun rises, but how long was he going to be out there? It wasn’t exactly the biggest yard. Where was all the water going?
After I saw my husband off to work, I went next door. It had been several hours since I’d looked out the window and seen Grandpa running the hose, but — of course — he was still there. Tomiko was already gone. From the gate, I called out in a fairly loud voice, “Grandpa! How long are you going to be gardening?” He gave no response, so I took a few steps in his direction. Once he saw me, he turned toward me with a hand in the air, baring his teeth in a smile. Now that he was looking right at me, I tried again. “How’s the garden?” As I spoke, his smile shrank for a moment, then grew back. Now he was really showing his teeth. It wasn’t even eight yet, but it was already scorching out. I moved closer to the house, into the shade, and watched Grandpa as he got back to the task at hand. His lips formed a tight circle, as if he were whistling, but he wasn’t making a sound. I looked at the plants around the garden. There were morning glories in red and dark blue, the flowers clinging to their own leaves. There were giant red cannas and sunflowers the color of molasses. Among the wild weeds and yellowing pots, I could see dark purple clumps of wood sorrels and a few light red plants I couldn’t name, but it was clearly some sort of garden species. Everything seemed to strike a strange balance — maybe because it was summer? The scene hummed with a green vitality that flowed through the windless garden. A grasshopper leapt onto a leaf, then flew away, the stalk trembling in its wake.
In the bushes beyond the sun, a black shadow blinked. A pair of bright yellow circles closed, then opened again. A large, round frog. Close to it was a single dahlia, swarming with yellow aphids moving sluggishly up and down the long stem. The aphids had eyes. They were only black dots, no bigger than the tip of a needle, but I could see them with terrible clarity. They looked so large that I thought something had to be wrong with my own eyes. The flowers were past their peak. Their petals were curling up, changing color. It looked like the frog was about to feed on the aphids. I waited for it to unleash its pink tongue and snap up the unsuspecting insects. The dahlia collapsed from the root. A blast of water had knocked it over. Grandpa — whistling soundlessly — was flooding the garden around him, leaving the dahlia on its side before moving on to the bush where the frog had been. A single cicada shook its abdomen clumsily as it began to cross the garden, stopping to release a stream of clear fluid, then began to buzz. Chiii, chit, chit. Grandpa looked at me as if he had just remembered I was there, then returned to his usual pose. “Grandpa . . . the water . . .” He nodded and held his hand up at what was probably a right angle to his body, but his whole body was tilted to one side. Just when I thought he couldn’t grin any wider, he did. He couldn’t hear a word I said. Beneath his giant hat, his teeth were shining. His eyes and nose were hidden in shadow. Only his mouth — a rigid smile — was clear to me. It didn’t even look like a smile to me anymore, but I had to believe that it was. As I looked at the garden, now reduced to mud, I saw a black animal coming toward the gate. Its face was strangely long and pointy. Its yellow eyes were trained on me. A few stray drops from Grandpa’s hose splashed across its snout. The animal jumped a little, then quickened its steps. I looked at Grandpa. He must have noticed the animal, but carried on just the same. He continued to spray water all around, his lips puckered in a tight circle, producing more spit than sound. The animal came closer, then shook its body. No water flew off of it. It wasn’t very wet. It couldn’t be the same animal as before. Its fur looked a little softer, its tail a little shorter. The animal swaggered across the garden, behind Tomiko’s house, then disappeared around the corner. Grandpa was looking elsewhere, his lips pursed as he turned the water up. The green hose shook behind him and the water shot through the garden. I went after the animal.
Between Tomiko’s house and the Seras’ was a concrete-block wall — like the one between Tomiko’s house and ours, but maybe a foot or two taller. There was a break in the blocks just large enough for a person to squeeze through. It was dark, hidden in shadow. In the darkness, I could make out hind legs and a short tail, only for a moment, before the animal vanished. I went after it. Thick layers of spiderwebs hung between the concrete wall and the house. They got all over my face and in my mouth. I tried to peel the webs from my face. On the back wall of the house were dried clumps of earth drooping down. They could have been smears of mud left behind by a child — or maybe some sort of insect nest. A few of the concrete blocks had fan-shaped holes in them. Through the openings, I could see the yard next door — the Seras’ yard. The grass was as green as could be, and covered with bright red and yellow objects. Maybe they were her son’s toys? I imagined Sera in her white skirt, watering the lawn. Nothing like Grandpa in his muddy boots. What I envisioned was a happier scene — a child playing gleefully at her feet. At the edge of Tomiko’s house, a small space appeared. There was no animal. Instead I saw a middle-aged man. The cries of the cicadas stopped.
The man was crouching down, his arm shoved through one of the open blocks. I froze. He looked right at me. He was thin, with black hair, wearing a white open-collar shirt. I’d seen him before, at the 7-Eleven. It was the man the children had called Sensei. “Hello there!” the man shouted. I gulped. Behind the man, I saw a small building — some sort of prefabricated shack. “And who might you be?” he asked loudly, a smile on his face.
If this man were an intruder and I had to call for help, the Seras’ house was probably closer than Grandpa. Besides, Grandpa wouldn’t even hear me. As I wondered whether Sera was home, I tried my best to answer him: “I live, in the house, next, next to this one . . .” “Right, right. The bride. When you say ‘next to,’ you mean on the opposite side, right? You moved in just a little while ago . . .” He had a friendly way of talking. He didn’t seem at all dangerous or threatening, but I couldn’t be sure. “I’m the older son. Mune’s older brother. A lot older, really.” “Huh?” My mouth was hanging open. The man continued. “I suppose that makes me your . . . what? What’s that called again? It’s on the tip of my tongue, I swear. I’m your husband’s brother, and that makes me your, uh, your brother, brother-in . . . brother-in-what . . .” “Law?” “Right! Your brother-in-law.”