Reading Steinbeck in Japan, Part I

The late afternoon clouds drift lazily over weather hill as a family of hawks circle the summit, stretching majestic wings to catch a ride on an elusive breeze. Scrub trees and an occasional towering larch (author is guessing) obscure the patches of cement bolstering the west slope. The hawks' wingspan is easily five feet, probably closer to six. They continue to circle taunted by thousands of hiding cicadas raising a joyful chorus. Small black spiders spy the cicadas and flirt with them, step-hop, step-hop.

The clouds melt into twilight. A light appears in a rectangular window in a two-story concrete structure on the flat land 50 yards north of the hill. The hawks continue to circle and swoop as the silhouette of a woman appears in the window. One brave spider step-hops to the sill and watches the woman slice strawberries with an old wooden-handled knife. The blade of the knife is too long for pithing strawberries and too dull for cutting anything other than soft fruit but it belonged to her husband's father and the woman can't bear to part with it. There are shiny patches on the blade that make the woman think of knife-sharpeners pushing carts and dodging tumbleweed on Arizona streets in the middle of the previous century.

The woman slides a tray of biscuits into the oven then squints at the directions on an aerosol can of Cool Whip. A tall, slim boy leans into the window frame, nostrils twitching like a jackrabbit's. "Curry and shortcake," she announces with a thin-lipped smile. "You've cooked six suppers in seven days," the boy remarks in a tone bordering on amazement. "A personal best, at least since your grandfather passed away," she notes. The boy tucks into his supper.

The black spider sits patiently in a shadow on the left corner of the windowsill until the light is extinguished then creeps through a tiny crevice in the wall to nibble on crumbs.