RYŪNOSUKE AKUTAGAWA, “In a Grove”

The Daughter

I told the appraiser, what charmed our parents is now what makes the house unsalable: fifty stone steps leading up to a house secluded in trees and treetops. No one would ever visit, except the meter man and the occasional Jehovah’s Witness—who our father always chased off.

The Granddaughter

At Grandpa’s funeral, Mom and Auntie both spoke of their childhood memories, both so different. Had I been offered the chance, I wondered what I would’ve said. On the train home, I jotted down:

Mothballs.

Lacquering a bamboo bracelet. Carving a linoleum block, then printing the picture (mine, a turtle).

The fifty-two slippery stone steps that Mom had to sweep or shovel when she was a teenager.

Learning to use chopsticks with a rubber band and wad of paper making something like tweezers.

Seven years after Grandma died, Grandpa took us to Hong Kong where we rode a tram up The Peak and I ate bad hamburger and he wouldn’t let me call Mom “because it’s long distance.” That must have been when Mom and Dad were separating and we didn’t know because they didn’t ever argue.

In the garden patch behind their house, digging in the compost for worms to feed Turt, the turtle.

A doll whose heart lit up in the dark. Waffle iron.

In restrooms Grandma would cover the toilet seat with paper for me.

Learning to sift flour.

I am not sure if I remember the smell of mothballs from staying at the house or, if after Grandma died, just from Grandpa’s clothes. I think in the ten years after she died, I only went back to the house a few times. I didn’t want to sleep in that bedroom where I’d slept with Grandma under a comforter, even in summer. Grandpa was that mothball smell.

The Appraiser to the Two Daughters

Honestly, there’s no low-balling here. I mean, the stone steps—who’d want to climb them? No garage. No car access (even for a dumpster). Septic tank, yes? Well water? I mean I can’t believe there’s so much rock.

The Appraiser again to the Daughters

The cost to demolish may be greater than the property value. No offense, but the house is worth nothing.

The Daughter again

After Mother died, Father’s various art projects took on their real shapes: stacks of egg crates and envelopes of beer labels. Buckets of water with soaking bamboo.

The Daughter again

Then of course, a jumble of junk mail so dense you couldn’t see the floor. Flowerpots with no plants, with only soil.

The Father

It. Is. My. House. Why are those girls telling me I can’t go to my house. I’m going to hail a taxi and take it the whole damn twenty-five miles. Balls.

The Father to the Daughters