Page 5 of Kimiko and the Accidental Proposal
Curious if the wolf had seen, Kimiko continued along the side of the train to the back window. He was there, grinning now, all fang and fraternity. And he bid her farewell in a way that roughly translatedyou’ve made me glad our paths crossed.
Kimiko returned the gesture, waved goodbye in a completely human way, then mounted the stairs to street level with even more spring in her step than usual.
Home for Kimiko was Kikusawa, an aging neighborhood within Keishi, full of small shops and nosy neighbors. Faded paint, rusted metal, curling advertisements tacked to walls. She supposed Kikusawa was a little on the shabby side, but she preferred to focus on the good parts. Vivid bins of satsuma oranges at the grocers. The tempting sizzle of croquettes, served piping hot in paper sleeves. Sticky-sweet burned sugar smells coming from the tea shop that grilled their dango out front to lure in customers.
People lived over shops or behind businesses. Poky alleys hid the entrances to restaurants, the barber, a hardware store, and the candy shop Kimiko had frequented since she could walk. She hoped this part of the city—herpart—would never change. Everyone bought their produce from the Nakamura’s and their fish from Satoh and Sons. The Smiling Cat was famous for its western-style lunch menu, and The House of the Noble Chrysanthemum sold traditional sweets.
It was a matter of pride to shop locally, which made Kimiko self-conscious about her collection of bags. But some things couldn’t be bought in Kikusawa.
“Kimi-chan,” called Mrs. Miura, who was sprinkling salt on the public bath house’s front step. Wrinkles might hide the little old woman’s eyes, but she never missed a thing. “Adding to your collection?”
“Yes, Auntie.” Kimiko hurried to her side and held out one of the bags. “I found these two stations over. Limited editions for the New Year.”
Mrs. Miura pawed gently through the bag, humming and clucking. “I used to like these when I was a girl. My father worked for Junzi, you know.”
She knew that, of course. Mrs. Miura had told her the story dozens of times. The local chocolate-maker was famous throughout Japan for the superior quality of their sweets and for the artistry in their packaging. “My grandfather used to buy them for me.”
“I used to play with Miyabe-kun.” She lifted one of the squat chocolate bars, foil wrapped, with a heavy paper sleeve adorned with plum blossoms. “He always had a sweet tooth.”
“Me, too. Would you like that one, Auntie?”
“No, no, dear.” Mrs. Miura returned the chocolate to her bag. “Didn’t you go a long way for these? Only bring your book down sometime soon.”
“As soon as I add these,” Kimiko promised.
She’d been collecting labels from Junzi chocolate bars since grade school, when she’d first realized whatlimited editionmeant. Her grandfather had helped her find them, buy them, and organize them. And he’d never left Keishi without bringing home Junzi chocolate bars exclusive to other prefectures.
Kimiko missed him terribly.
But her usual trick mostly worked. Focus on the good parts, like the tradition he had started and she would carry on. Not out of duty, but for love.
With a parting wave for Mrs. Miura, Kimiko continued homeward. Theirs was a tight-knit community, mostly overlooked by outsiders and ruled by the Kikusawa Business Association and the Ladies Neighborhood Improvement Committee. They had their own schools—preschool through middle—and a community center where folks gathered to play shogi, mahjong, or table tennis. Kimiko passed the pharmacy, a twenty-four hour convenience store, and old Mr. Ryota’s steamy oden cart.
“Miyabe-kun!”
Kimiko waved cheerily at Mr. Fujiwara, who owned the butcher shop. The deep-voiced man with his craggy features and bloody apron used to frighten her when she was small. But there was a good nature behind his gruff way of speaking.
He beckoned her over to the window at the front of his shop and its brightly-lit glass case. Making a big show of looking both ways, he passed her a steamed bun.
“Are you sure?” she asked. The glossy white bread was hot against her palm.
Mr. Fujiwara pointed knowingly at the bags looped over her arms. “Sweets aren’t strength, and you’ll be needing yours.”
“Thank you!” Kimiko broke the bun in half, releasing a fragrant cloud of steam. “Will we see you up top tonight?”
The man, who had gone to school with her mother, patted his muscular bicep. “You can count on me and my boys! These are the times when friends and neighbors rally together!”
“Until later.” Kimiko waved and called, “Thank you, again!”
Many of the shops had closed up early. No doubt they were already hard at work, helping with the finishing touches for tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve festivities.
She’d polished off the last of the pork bun by the time she reached the pair of ancient cherry trees that marked the turning to the elementary school. Then a covered bus stop. Beyond was a steep, forested slope, thick with evergreens. Nestled beneath the overhanging boughs was a long, narrow stairway, its foot framed by a distinctive red arch and a pair of crouching stone dragons.
Home for Kimiko Miyabe was Kikusawa, but especially Kikusawa Shrine. Because the Miyabe family had always lived on the outermost edge of the In-between, serving the human community as shrinekeepers.
FOUR
Kikusawa Shrine
