Foxfire (An Other Novel) by Karen Kincy Page A

Tsuyoshi says, with a deep chuckle.
    I smile, but it feels like a mask. “Thank you for dinner. Merry Christmas!”
    “Merry Christmas!” everyone choruses, playing their parts.
    This is all too nice, like my grandparents want to counteract the bad luck of me ending up in the hospital. Like it’s their fault, not mine.
    A skinny waiter refills Gwen’s teacup, his eyes fixed on her red hair. She’s gotten nothing but stares ever since she set foot in this restaurant—and she still doesn’t seem tired of it. Of course they gave her a fork, assuming a gaijin like her couldn’t possibly handle chopsticks.
    Michiko smiles at me. “We knew this was a good place for kitsune.”
    The waiter’s eyes sharpen. “Kitsune?”
    “Our grandson.” Michiko nods at me. “We adopted him.”
    I freeze, a chopstick-load of udon noodles halfway to my mouth. Oh my god. What did she just say? Telling somebody you’re Other is not polite dinner conversation back in the States. That’s the sort of thing that can get you killed. Or at least shot.
    Gwen nudges my ankle with her toes, and I unclench my fists.
    The waiter gives me a big smile, his teeth bleached bright. “Do you like the kitsune udon?”
    I let nothing show on my face. “I’m eating it right now.”
    “Another bowl, then, on the house.” The waiter bows and leaves.
    Michiko smiles and looks at Tsuyoshi, who nods like a bobble-head. Why are they smiling ? Is this okay ? I don’t even know if I’m angry or scared or … happy. That might be pride on their faces, but I’m definitely not ready to be publicly announced as kitsune.
    “Excuse me,” I say, in my politest Japanese possible, “but that makes me uncomfortable.”
    Tsuyoshi’s bushy eyebrows descend. “What does?”
    I meet his eyes. “Telling people that I’m kitsune.”
    Silence. Tsuyoshi stares into his rice bowl, and Michiko busies herself rearranging the dishes in front of her. My face heats until I’m sure it must be the color of the lanterns above.
    “You may have forgotten,” Tsuyoshi says quietly, “the place of the kitsune in Japan.”
    I don’t think I could ever forget my childhood.
    Out loud, I say, “I remember the place of the nogitsune.”
    Tsuyoshi’s eyes flash. “There is no need to speak of that.”
    Is he asking me to pretend I’m not a field fox? To let the waiter believe that I’m actually a temple fox? That I’m good luck rather than bad? I clench my jaw, biting back my words.
    Gwen keeps her head down, taking quick, quiet bites of her food. I can tell she’s trying to figure out what we’re saying, even though she doesn’t understand very much Japanese.
    The waiter returns with a giant smile on his face and a steaming-hot bowl of kitsune udon.
    “Thank you,” I say, since it seems like the safest thing to do.
    “Enjoy your dinner.” The waiter bows again, then leaves.
    I stare at the ghosts of steam dancing above my bowl. My stomach feels hollow, but I’m not hungry anymore. Still, I force myself to drink every last drop of broth, if only to see Michiko smile again. Tsuyoshi won’t meet my eyes for the rest of dinner.
    When I go to the restroom before we leave, Tsuyoshi meets me by the sinks. I look at him in the mirror; his face looks gray and whole decade older. “We will see the myobu tomorrow.”
    I concentrate on washing my hands. “I’m not one of them.”
    He closes the distance between us, his face so close I could count every wrinkle. “There is no need for your birth mother to bring disgrace to the Kimura name. Shiranu ga hotoke. ”
    Shiranu ga hotoke. Not knowing is Buddha. Ignorance is bliss.
    Tsuyoshi’s voice is low yet intense, like the distant roar of a waterfall. “You have a duty to this family. You will leave behind your past. You will speak to the myobu.”
    My hands stop moving. I keep my head down and stare into the sink. Then I nod, because I know I have to.

    Tsuyoshi wakes me at sunrise. He’s wearing an expensive suit and