The Hole by Hiroko Oyamada

Author:Hiroko Oyamada
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9780811228886
Publisher: New Directions
Published: 2020-09-16T20:12:41+00:00

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.

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