The following day Adams and his crew flew to the coast. From there they chartered the Glomar Challenger and sounded depth charges along the northern edge of the trench. Shrimp boats hovered near them all afternoon, waving their nets in the sun. The ship’s captain, an American who’d spent the last eight years on the Sea of Japan, explained to Adams that American shipping was dying. “Can’t compete with foreign prices,” he said. He was returning to the United States next month to guide a ferry. “I can make more as a ferry pilot than I can as the captain of a ship.” He showed Adams the radar system — a constantly changing, transparent map — and provided cheerful explanations of the ship’s workings.
The crew drank beer, watched a school of sharks in the warmer waters of the continental slope, and compiled their charts. On the way in, early evening, they toasted the coastal lights and listened to a Japanese broadcast of the World Series.
Disappointed with the initial results of the mission, Adams remained in Japan for another four months, taking time off to visit other parts of the country. At Aokigahara, his access to the forest was limited by yet another manhunt: a party of schoolchildren had wandered away from their class picnic and had not been seen in two days. The police had reason to suspect that the children had lost themselves intentionally, to fulfill a suicide pact. When Adams expressed astonishment, a Japanese tourist assured him, “Japan, unfortunately, has one of the highest child suicide rates in the world. Our school system is very rigorous and many children succumb to the pressure.”
In the forest Adams paused to rest in a small clearing. The wood’s magnetic rocks confounded compass readings but he had kept his eye on a line of trees. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, relaced his shoes, and started to move on when he heard a rustling in the leaves. He paused. Again. Adams turned and crept toward the shade. There, kneeling in the dirt, were two little girls wearing checkered dresses. Their bangs were long. Adams crouched. One of the girls began to giggle. Her friend, startled at first, joined her. Adams sat back on his heels and watched the laughing little girls.
Deidre crying. “Toby hit me.”
“Apologize to your sister.”
“No,” Toby says.
Adams sends them to bed.
All night, sniffles from their rooms. Adams gets up, feels his way along the wall. He winds up in the kitchen, annoyed that he cannot find his way around the house in the dark. In the field behind his yard two boys, bundled against the cold, light a Roman candle. The cardboard tube explodes, knocking the boys face down into the weeds. Before Adams can reach the back door, the boys leap up, apparently unharmed, and slice a path through the stickers. Adams calls his kids, feeds them ice cream and cakes. “What’s wrong, Dad? What’s the matter,” Deidre asks, holding out her cone. “Can I have some more?”
When Pamela was pregnant with Toby, she craved foods that didn’t exist. “Is there something that tastes the way furniture polish smells?” Adams made a meatloaf that nearly fit the bill, but nothing quite satisfied her and she moped around the house, miserable. To cheer her up, Adams bought an ottoman on which she could recline, and several cans of Lemon Pledge to polish it.
Yesterday Pamela arrived with a U-Haul for the ottoman and the oak wardrobe she had left behind. Adams is glad to have the furniture out, but the change is unsettling. He goes to Morty’s early, orders a couple of beers. Bob arrives at eight-thirty and tunes his bass guitar. Before the first set begins, Bob addresses the band. “We were shit last week. Sam dragged on nearly every tune.”
Pete and Denny turn to look at Adams.
“‘Dock of the Bay’ saved us but let’s tighten up, all right?”
There is something about guitars and cords and amps that changes a man. During the week Bob and Denny are polite businessmen, Pete a smooth announcer, but let them strap on a Fender or pick up a Gibson and they develop a slouch, mumble “Hey,” and squint whether the room is smoky or not.
Tonight the combo will alternate sets with a punk band Morty has hired to appeal to the teenagers. Orphaned by Bullets, they’re called. The drummer has blue hair.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he tells Adams. Adams is rubbing his cymbals with Brasso and a rag.
“It changes the molecular structure. Your cymbals turn into wax paper.”
He’s nineteen, pimpled, answers to Zig. His drums are plastic, transparent, flat as tables. A long extension cord connects his toms to an outlet behind the bar. The drums ping when hit, and reverberate for several seconds.
Adams’ set looks clumsy next to the modern equipment. Zig gapes at Adams’ snare. “Where’s it plug in?” he says.
Pete is sitting at a table next to a short young girl. “Sam, this is Mary.”
“Hi. I’m Sam.”
“You’re good. I heard you last week.” “Thanks.”
“Mary goes to high school,” Pete says, grinning. He offers her a cigarette. She says something about living on her own. It’s not clear to Adams how she can rent an apartment or stay out late without her parents’ consent.
“So, what do you do when you’re not playing the drums?”
“I draw maps.”
“Neat.” Her T-shirt says RELAX. “YOU know what, I think we should have an adventure when you guys get off,” she says. Her toes are painted red. “Buy some shit and go sleep on the moon.”
“Time to swing,” Pete says, tapping Adams’ arm.
Adams follows him, takes his place behind the drums, and counts them into the first set. After ten minutes the band’s in gear, they’re relaxing, but the air remains charged, keeping the songs tight. The set moves nicely, and when they kick into “Dock of the Bay” they’ve never been better. Melody and rhythm work together like two bodies long accustomed to the steady timing of affection.
Orphaned by Bullets sounds a little like hash brown potatoes being shaken in a jar. Pete and Denny fall on each other with laughter, order extra Scotch-and-waters. Adams and Bob, gauging the crowd reaction, listen intently to the tunes. In the eighties, punk is the come-together shout, but Orphaned by Bullets’ sound is unlike any variation of rock and roll Adams has ever heard. Each member of the band, dressed in gray plastic overalls with dabs of wild paint in his hair, seems to be playing a mathematical progression on his instrument unlike the progressions performed by his cohorts. They are hardly a band at all in the traditional sense of the word, but the young crowd, which had been perfunctorily polite during the combo’s set, is eating it up.
“We can’t compete for this audience,” Adams tells Bob.
“You’re right. I figure jazz — straight jazz. They’ll think it’s something new. Next set, we open with ‘Take Five.’”
“These cats are great!” Pete shouts across the table.
“Shut up, Pete,” says Bob.
Adams calls Jill from a pay phone near the kitchen. She had wanted to come tonight to hear him play, but Carter dumped a box of paperwork on her at quitting time.
“How’s it going?” Adams asks.