How High We Go in the Dark(44)

Attached to the letter is a photo of the man’s son with Samson. The kid’s hooked up to all manner of wires and tubes. He’s so pale you can see the veins branching across his body. I take the dog out of the box, brush away the packing peanuts, and hear a rattle inside, telling me that this pup is likely dead on arrival. Poor kid. I open Samson up to confirm before emailing the owner. I regret to inform you . . . I think about the boy in his bed, waiting, hoping, maybe already deep in a coma in some crowded plague ward. I think about his father, skimming from monthly paychecks to buy his son something new that can never replace this dog. As a kindness, I include a cushion for Samson and refurbish the exterior as best I can. I’m preparing packing materials to send him back express when Aki emerges from his room, sees the poodle stuffed in the box.

“I told the guy not to send it,” I say. “Nothing to be done.”

“You should update the website and be honest with people,” he says. “All you do anymore is open them up, shake your head, and send them back. It’s pointless. Maybe it’s time for you to get a real job.”

My face grows hot and part of me wants to smack him on the back of his head, put him in his place, even if I know he’s right. I still cling to the belief that I can do some good for these dogs and their owners. Aki goes into the other room and begins playing the shamisen. Soon, I hear my wife’s voice, a song from her favorite enka singer, Keiko Fuji. I’ve begun to preserve all the artifacts of my wife’s voice that she stored inside Hollywood on a digital recorder, in preparation for his eventual failure. I know it won’t be the same, though. After all, Ayano sang into Hollywood’s ears. I sit next to Aki as he plays. He gets up and says he needs more space. I shift over on the sofa. He watches me move before resuming his song. Every so often, my wife’s voice is overcome by static or another melody from Hollywood’s data bank. My son continues to play until Ayano finds her way back to us. Usually, this is our evening together: I cook dinner, Aki performs with Hollywood, and I spend the rest of the night alone in my workshop, thinking about how much time we’ll need before we can move beyond this.

“I miss her so much,” I say. I’m surprised that I let the words leave my mouth. I’ve broken the ritual my son and I created together. Aki’s bow hand is still. He looks to the floor. I can see his tears falling to the tatami, forming dark spots on the straw. I move closer. He backs away and puts the shamisen in its case. I’ve never been a hugger. It’s just not something men in my family have ever done, but I want to hug my son. I want to feel his heartbeat against my own, his tears on my shoulder. I want to connect to the only real part of my wife that is left.

“I’m finished,” he says. “I’m tired.”

It’s a warm but not terribly humid day for the group memorial service, and my former clients find support in one another, sharing stories about their pets. I arrange a simple picnic lunch for everyone—sandwiches I bought half off at the grocery store, arranged on a plastic tray with some fruit. I’m about to go back inside to allow them their space when they invite Aki and me to join them.

“You’re one of us,” they say. “In a way these dogs belong to you, too.” One of my clients points to Hollywood, sitting in Aki’s lap. Aki tells Hollywood to say hello. Instead, he asks the group a series of math questions. His LED eyes flicker. Our guests look at us with pity. Maybe they’re starting to realize that if I can’t fix my own dog, there is no hope left.

“He’s a funny little thing,” I say. Aki is petting Hollywood, and suddenly we’re all listening to my wife’s hopes and dreams for our son. Study hard. Go to college. Meet someone who will make you happy and be kind to our family. Travel to all the places I never got to visit. Aki is trying to make the recording stop, furiously activating Hollywood’s sensors. The dog finally goes quiet and then offers an algebra question to the group.

“Sorry,” Aki says, and stands to leave with Hollywood. I want to run after him, except I have no idea what to say.

Normally, after services like these, we visit Ayano at the high-rise cemetery in Chiba right outside of Tokyo, urn #25679B. I clean up after our guests and find Aki in bed, cradling Hollywood, who seems to be having another fit—random dancing, jumbled audio, the weather forecast frozen in his eyes.

“How long has he been like that?” I ask.

“Few minutes,” Aki says. The fits don’t last long, but they’ve been happening with greater frequency. Aki rocks back and forth as if the motion soothes our robo-dog.

“Have you tried confusing his programming?” I ask. “Sometimes that seems to stop the fits.”

Aki shakes his head and says: “Dance, speak, stay, recharge.” Hollywood continues to flail and beep. “Dance, speak, stay, recharge.” Finally, Hollywood drops his front and hind legs, enters power-down mode.

“Do you still want to go see your mother today?” I ask.

Aki nods, springs out of bed, begins rifling through his closet for a dress shirt and slacks. He grabs Hollywood, and we head to Shinjuku Station to board the express train to the Japan Post Ltd. Funerary Remembrance Complex.

On the train, Aki and I stand, waiting for two passengers to leave before we take their single seats on opposite sides of the car. Everyone is dressed in black, the only voices recorded announcements of each station in English and Japanese— Next stop: Fuji Tech Funerary Mall. Stop here for incense, flowers, and gift stores. Next stop: Lawson’s Funerary Food Square. Stop here for ATMs, hotels, and the City Mortuary Affairs Office. In front of me an elderly woman is holding a small bouquet of white and yellow lilies and chrysanthemums. Beside her, a younger woman wipes away her tears, fixes her makeup. The monitors above our heads advertise catering services, a company that can send a rocket filled with your loved one’s ashes into space, premier packages for holograms of the departed that can be projected from a stainless steel urn. When a couple gets off at the crematorium stop, Aki and I take their seats so we can sit together as we wait for the end of the line, what the locals call the neighborhood of the dead. As we get closer, Aki lifts Hollywood to the window. The two of them gaze out at the skyline, the dark funerary towers casting fingerlike shadows over the temples and rock gardens.