Sumiko and Parker at the Ritz-Carlton
Karen Regen Tuero
So, there they were in Naples, Florida, at the Ritz-Carlton. Sumiko wanted to order breakfast from room service, and Parker told her it was a waste of money. Then he saw the look on her face and said, “Fine. I’ll have two fried eggs, well done. Tell them the yolk better not be runny. Coffee, black; two slices of rye, toasted. An OJ, too. Large.”
“This will be fun. I love ordering room service,” Sumiko said and called.
Parker got out of bed, putting on a pair of ironed jeans and a T-shirt from the clothes his wife had unpacked after their arrival the night before. He sat down at the table beside the veranda overlooking the ocean. He opened The New York Times to the business section. He had his laptop with him - he was no Neanderthal - but liked the feel of the newspaper in his hands.
Sumiko was still in bed, her hands laced over her stomach. She was wearing a silky rose-colored nightgown that showed a small triangle of her chest, the best she could do, considering her upbringing. She sighed heavily, watching Parker read the paper.
He set the paper down. “What is it?” he said, irritated. He put on his socks and the loafers with the tassels. “You’re staying in bed all day?”
“It’s just nice,” Sumiko called. “We’re on vacation.”
When Parker’s eggs arrived, the yolk was running onto the rye bread, which was untoasted. He picked up a slice, and watched the yellow drips. He looked at his wife seated across the table still in her nightgown, happily eating her pancakes.
“I love Western-style breakfast,” Sumiko said, smoothing more butter onto the pancake.
“Western-style?” Parker said blankly. He downed the orange juice, gave his palate a chance to clear, then started on the coffee.
“Even when I was little, I liked this kind of food for breakfast. Not rice and miso soup and fish. Japanese food is better for dinner.”
“Japanese food is better never.” He gave a laugh at one of his favorite lines.
“At least you could try it.” She added, “For me,” then wished she hadn’t.
“Sure, sure.” Parker took another sip of coffee; at least this was good. He turned to the financial markets.
“Couldn’t you stop reading while we eat?”
When he continued, she got up and went to the glass pane doors shut onto the veranda.
Outside, a man jogged along the beach three stories below. The sound of a plane caused Sumiko to lift her head and see a fading message. “The view’s lovely. You’re missing it.”
Parker shut the paper, stacking it in the corner of the desk. Without looking at the view, he finished his coffee, then pressed the TV remote. CNN came on.
Turning to him, Sumiko rubbed the crown of her head.
“I wish—“ her words broke off because she knew he understood her feelings. She’d already told him she wished he’d try just a little harder with her. Tightly, she closed her eyes and lips.
“Geez, Sumi,” he said, seeing her face. He had turned briefly from the newscaster. “Don’t make a federal case.” He glanced at the pancakes on her plate. “I thought you liked them.”
She had stopped eating after the first, a puddle of syrup under her fork.
“Come on.” He reached over and jabbed her playfully on the arm. “You said yourself I give you more than any Japanese man ever did.”
Sumiko looked at him for just an instant, narrowing her eyes, then went back to gazing through the glass doors at the ocean. The water was calm.
“You should’ve heard yourself last night,” Parker said, coming over and standing beside her, his hand on her shoulder. “Didn’t hear you complaining then. Seemed nice and happy.” He squeezed her shoulder but she didn’t look up. “Hey, you going to start up again? We’re on vacation, Sumi. Chill!”
Sumiko watched the other vacationers set up under blue umbrellas on the beach. Parker opened the glass doors, bringing the scent of sea air and the sound of gulls. “So what are you going to do?” she said without making eye contact. A light breeze brushed her face. “Do you know?”
“I told you!” Parker snapped, walking away. He grabbed the remote. “I’m not interested in being a father.”
“I mean today. I’m not asking about that.” She folded her hands over her stomach. She imagined she could feel the heartbeat already.
“See!” He flung the remote onto the table, hitting her plate. “You’ve got me so I can’t think.”
“I only mentioned it once,” she said, staring into his face, her own heart racing.
It was before the trip. She’d vowed to herself not to speak of it here. She’d told him he didn’t have to give her an answer right away. They still had a couple of weeks. A couple of weeks couldn’t matter very much.
“Aren’t you too old to have a kid?” he said, softening his tone. He lifted her hair back in his hands as she raised her chin. “You might get hurt. If you want one so badly, we can always pick one up in Korea. Okay?” He patted her shoulder and walked off to the bathroom.
“I’m not Korean,” she called after him. “I’m Japanese.”
“Right, right,” he said in a tone that showed he wasn’t listening.
“There’s a difference,” she said when he was back, still patting his face dry with a towel. “Besides, I’d like a child of my own. Our own.”
Parker lowered the towel from his face, his mouth wide open. “I thought you said it was an accident. You said you forgot to take your pill.”
“It was.”
He stared at her as if trying to decide if he should trust her. “You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
He threw the towel onto the bed and sat down facing into the breeze. The sparse hair he parted to the left waved lightly. “Our own!” He laughed in disbelief. “You mean your own. I don’t want anything to do with any kid.”
She picked up the wet towel, putting it in a bag for the maid. Softly, she said, “You can’t say that now.”
He stood up and whirled around. “Hey, don’t tell me what I can or can’t say. I told you six years ago. No kids. Don’t act like it’s some big surprise.”
“I was younger then.” She started to walk away. “I can change my mind.”
“I thought you said it was an accident,” he said, grabbing her arm and stopping her. He’d never done that before.
“It was,” she said with less conviction. “I mean, I changed my mind once I found out.”
“You rat.” He squeezed her arm tighter. “You planned it.”
When she wrested her arm free, she could still feel his grip.
“You can’t change the rules mid-game. I told you, one, no kids. And, two, I want my freedom. You let me keep my apartment, come and go. Everything was fine. Is fine.” He cursed softly under his breath. “Except this.” He sat down, raking his hands over his face. “Can’t you just get rid of it, Sumi?” He looked up at her. “What’s the big deal?”
Sumiko put the remote in his hand. “Just watch TV.”
Toward the end of their stay, Parker finished the morning paper and put it on the stack four papers high.
“Are you mad at me?” Sumiko asked.
Just two more papers to go, Parker thought, and he could get back to New York.
“Of course not,” he said, brushing her cheek with his hand.
“I’ll figure something out,” she said, making an effort to be cheerful.
“Of course you will.” He watched her disappear into the bathroom, still in her nightgown.
He couldn’t figure out why he was still with her, other than inertia and a fear of living alone. He’d gotten used to her being there, and though he was certain it wasn’t love, he couldn’t end it and move on. Marriage had its advantages. He could meet other women, enjoy himself and if they wanted more, he had the ring to pull out. Fortunately, women liked him. They thought if they only tried hard enough, he’d leave Sumi. Wrong.
The brim of the wide straw hat with its flowered ribbon shaded Sumiko’s face. A small Japanese paperback was open in her hands. She wore a one-piece swimsuit with panties underneath, as all Japanese women did. The elastic around the waist tugged. She’d gained a few pounds over the course of her marriage, most in the past month. She was still attractive in the right light, but the sun in mid afternoon made her look exactly her age - thirty seven.
Parker was out looking for seashells along the shore not far from Sumiko’s chair. He picked up only the white shells, perfectly shaped. He walked away from Sumiko, looked over this shoulder two separate times, then scoured the beach for larger, softer treasures.
In the distance, Sumiko could see Parker in his bright red bathing trunks, his hands on his hips. He was standing in front of someone’s lounge chair. Sumiko lowered her book and watched him crouch down beside a figure in a peach swimsuit.
Sumiko abandoned the book in favor of an email, barely started on her phone, to her younger sister. She wrote about how clean the sea and shore were compared to the one by the family’s house in Kamakura, then she wrote of the luxurious Ritz-Carlton at her back, the room service and the maids. She asked after the children. She wanted to say more. She started then stopped, breaking the flow of the kanji characters. She could not think of anything that would not worry her sister. At the end of each paragraph Sumiko looked up to see if Parker was coming back. He stayed where he was. He’d wandered off like this each day so far.
The elastic around her waist seemed to grow tighter and, through the swimsuit, she tried to roll it down. She angled her hat down farther so no one passing could see her eyes.
Parker practically skipped back to his wife’s chair. Sarah in the peach bathing suit. Those tits! And when she’d stood, that ass! She’d taken his phone number in New York. She was flying in on business next month.
“I’m going for a swim. Might as well,” he told Sumiko, arranging his hands so she wouldn’t notice his suit tenting.
As if an afterthought, he added, “Want to join me?”
“Oh, no thanks. I’ll just watch from here. It’s fun to watch you.” Sumiko put her phone down, the email unfinished.
“Can’t you just get rid of it?” he’d said early in the trip.
Thinking of this made something inside her shift irreversibly, like the sun’s rays were doing. She watched him stroll out into the calm Gulf water, going from knee-to-waist-to-shoulder deep. For the first time, she let herself picture him being inexplicably pulled under.
She saved the email draft to her sister, then packed her phone and book and the rest of her things. Without looking back, she vacated the chair.
Parker dipped his head under the water. He swam out from shore. Easy strokes. The late sun shimmered on his back, the smell of the Gulf filling him. He had never felt happier, he thought, as he stroked back to shore.
Karen Regen Tuero
So, there they were in Naples, Florida, at the Ritz-Carlton. Sumiko wanted to order breakfast from room service, and Parker told her it was a waste of money. Then he saw the look on her face and said, “Fine. I’ll have two fried eggs, well done. Tell them the yolk better not be runny. Coffee, black; two slices of rye, toasted. An OJ, too. Large.”
“This will be fun. I love ordering room service,” Sumiko said and called.
Parker got out of bed, putting on a pair of ironed jeans and a T-shirt from the clothes his wife had unpacked after their arrival the night before. He sat down at the table beside the veranda overlooking the ocean. He opened The New York Times to the business section. He had his laptop with him - he was no Neanderthal - but liked the feel of the newspaper in his hands.
Sumiko was still in bed, her hands laced over her stomach. She was wearing a silky rose-colored nightgown that showed a small triangle of her chest, the best she could do, considering her upbringing. She sighed heavily, watching Parker read the paper.
He set the paper down. “What is it?” he said, irritated. He put on his socks and the loafers with the tassels. “You’re staying in bed all day?”
“It’s just nice,” Sumiko called. “We’re on vacation.”
When Parker’s eggs arrived, the yolk was running onto the rye bread, which was untoasted. He picked up a slice, and watched the yellow drips. He looked at his wife seated across the table still in her nightgown, happily eating her pancakes.
“I love Western-style breakfast,” Sumiko said, smoothing more butter onto the pancake.
“Western-style?” Parker said blankly. He downed the orange juice, gave his palate a chance to clear, then started on the coffee.
“Even when I was little, I liked this kind of food for breakfast. Not rice and miso soup and fish. Japanese food is better for dinner.”
“Japanese food is better never.” He gave a laugh at one of his favorite lines.
“At least you could try it.” She added, “For me,” then wished she hadn’t.
“Sure, sure.” Parker took another sip of coffee; at least this was good. He turned to the financial markets.
“Couldn’t you stop reading while we eat?”
When he continued, she got up and went to the glass pane doors shut onto the veranda.
Outside, a man jogged along the beach three stories below. The sound of a plane caused Sumiko to lift her head and see a fading message. “The view’s lovely. You’re missing it.”
Parker shut the paper, stacking it in the corner of the desk. Without looking at the view, he finished his coffee, then pressed the TV remote. CNN came on.
Turning to him, Sumiko rubbed the crown of her head.
“I wish—“ her words broke off because she knew he understood her feelings. She’d already told him she wished he’d try just a little harder with her. Tightly, she closed her eyes and lips.
“Geez, Sumi,” he said, seeing her face. He had turned briefly from the newscaster. “Don’t make a federal case.” He glanced at the pancakes on her plate. “I thought you liked them.”
She had stopped eating after the first, a puddle of syrup under her fork.
“Come on.” He reached over and jabbed her playfully on the arm. “You said yourself I give you more than any Japanese man ever did.”
Sumiko looked at him for just an instant, narrowing her eyes, then went back to gazing through the glass doors at the ocean. The water was calm.
“You should’ve heard yourself last night,” Parker said, coming over and standing beside her, his hand on her shoulder. “Didn’t hear you complaining then. Seemed nice and happy.” He squeezed her shoulder but she didn’t look up. “Hey, you going to start up again? We’re on vacation, Sumi. Chill!”
Sumiko watched the other vacationers set up under blue umbrellas on the beach. Parker opened the glass doors, bringing the scent of sea air and the sound of gulls. “So what are you going to do?” she said without making eye contact. A light breeze brushed her face. “Do you know?”
“I told you!” Parker snapped, walking away. He grabbed the remote. “I’m not interested in being a father.”
“I mean today. I’m not asking about that.” She folded her hands over her stomach. She imagined she could feel the heartbeat already.
“See!” He flung the remote onto the table, hitting her plate. “You’ve got me so I can’t think.”
“I only mentioned it once,” she said, staring into his face, her own heart racing.
It was before the trip. She’d vowed to herself not to speak of it here. She’d told him he didn’t have to give her an answer right away. They still had a couple of weeks. A couple of weeks couldn’t matter very much.
“Aren’t you too old to have a kid?” he said, softening his tone. He lifted her hair back in his hands as she raised her chin. “You might get hurt. If you want one so badly, we can always pick one up in Korea. Okay?” He patted her shoulder and walked off to the bathroom.
“I’m not Korean,” she called after him. “I’m Japanese.”
“Right, right,” he said in a tone that showed he wasn’t listening.
“There’s a difference,” she said when he was back, still patting his face dry with a towel. “Besides, I’d like a child of my own. Our own.”
Parker lowered the towel from his face, his mouth wide open. “I thought you said it was an accident. You said you forgot to take your pill.”
“It was.”
He stared at her as if trying to decide if he should trust her. “You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
He threw the towel onto the bed and sat down facing into the breeze. The sparse hair he parted to the left waved lightly. “Our own!” He laughed in disbelief. “You mean your own. I don’t want anything to do with any kid.”
She picked up the wet towel, putting it in a bag for the maid. Softly, she said, “You can’t say that now.”
He stood up and whirled around. “Hey, don’t tell me what I can or can’t say. I told you six years ago. No kids. Don’t act like it’s some big surprise.”
“I was younger then.” She started to walk away. “I can change my mind.”
“I thought you said it was an accident,” he said, grabbing her arm and stopping her. He’d never done that before.
“It was,” she said with less conviction. “I mean, I changed my mind once I found out.”
“You rat.” He squeezed her arm tighter. “You planned it.”
When she wrested her arm free, she could still feel his grip.
“You can’t change the rules mid-game. I told you, one, no kids. And, two, I want my freedom. You let me keep my apartment, come and go. Everything was fine. Is fine.” He cursed softly under his breath. “Except this.” He sat down, raking his hands over his face. “Can’t you just get rid of it, Sumi?” He looked up at her. “What’s the big deal?”
Sumiko put the remote in his hand. “Just watch TV.”
Toward the end of their stay, Parker finished the morning paper and put it on the stack four papers high.
“Are you mad at me?” Sumiko asked.
Just two more papers to go, Parker thought, and he could get back to New York.
“Of course not,” he said, brushing her cheek with his hand.
“I’ll figure something out,” she said, making an effort to be cheerful.
“Of course you will.” He watched her disappear into the bathroom, still in her nightgown.
He couldn’t figure out why he was still with her, other than inertia and a fear of living alone. He’d gotten used to her being there, and though he was certain it wasn’t love, he couldn’t end it and move on. Marriage had its advantages. He could meet other women, enjoy himself and if they wanted more, he had the ring to pull out. Fortunately, women liked him. They thought if they only tried hard enough, he’d leave Sumi. Wrong.
The brim of the wide straw hat with its flowered ribbon shaded Sumiko’s face. A small Japanese paperback was open in her hands. She wore a one-piece swimsuit with panties underneath, as all Japanese women did. The elastic around the waist tugged. She’d gained a few pounds over the course of her marriage, most in the past month. She was still attractive in the right light, but the sun in mid afternoon made her look exactly her age - thirty seven.
Parker was out looking for seashells along the shore not far from Sumiko’s chair. He picked up only the white shells, perfectly shaped. He walked away from Sumiko, looked over this shoulder two separate times, then scoured the beach for larger, softer treasures.
In the distance, Sumiko could see Parker in his bright red bathing trunks, his hands on his hips. He was standing in front of someone’s lounge chair. Sumiko lowered her book and watched him crouch down beside a figure in a peach swimsuit.
Sumiko abandoned the book in favor of an email, barely started on her phone, to her younger sister. She wrote about how clean the sea and shore were compared to the one by the family’s house in Kamakura, then she wrote of the luxurious Ritz-Carlton at her back, the room service and the maids. She asked after the children. She wanted to say more. She started then stopped, breaking the flow of the kanji characters. She could not think of anything that would not worry her sister. At the end of each paragraph Sumiko looked up to see if Parker was coming back. He stayed where he was. He’d wandered off like this each day so far.
The elastic around her waist seemed to grow tighter and, through the swimsuit, she tried to roll it down. She angled her hat down farther so no one passing could see her eyes.
Parker practically skipped back to his wife’s chair. Sarah in the peach bathing suit. Those tits! And when she’d stood, that ass! She’d taken his phone number in New York. She was flying in on business next month.
“I’m going for a swim. Might as well,” he told Sumiko, arranging his hands so she wouldn’t notice his suit tenting.
As if an afterthought, he added, “Want to join me?”
“Oh, no thanks. I’ll just watch from here. It’s fun to watch you.” Sumiko put her phone down, the email unfinished.
“Can’t you just get rid of it?” he’d said early in the trip.
Thinking of this made something inside her shift irreversibly, like the sun’s rays were doing. She watched him stroll out into the calm Gulf water, going from knee-to-waist-to-shoulder deep. For the first time, she let herself picture him being inexplicably pulled under.
She saved the email draft to her sister, then packed her phone and book and the rest of her things. Without looking back, she vacated the chair.
Parker dipped his head under the water. He swam out from shore. Easy strokes. The late sun shimmered on his back, the smell of the Gulf filling him. He had never felt happier, he thought, as he stroked back to shore.
