Post Mortem

A short story based on my first marriage to a Deerfield prep school graduate

Originally published in Wising Up Press anthology, Flip Sides

Be Worthy of Your Heritage

1987 Ghana

If ye love wealth greater than liberty, the tranquility of servitude greater than the animating contest for freedom, go home from us in peace. We seek not your counsel, nor your arms. Crouch down and lick the hand that feeds you; May your chains set lightly upon you, and may posterity forget that ye were our countrymen.

Samuel Adams, founder of Lane’s prep school

As the flight approached the stopover in Lagos, Nao overheard her neighbor, the missionary, ask the flight attendant, “Excuse me, Miss. Have they got the situation in Lagos under control?” The woman nodded yes and continued down the aisle.

Nao tapped the missionary’s shoulder, “What situation?”

The missionary (she learned his profession shortly after takeoff from the stopover in Schiphol) said, “Oh, for a while there, every time we touched down in Lagos, men leapt out of the bush brandishing machetes and threatening to slash the tires until we handed over our money. That’s all.”

Nao leaned back into her seat and sighed. There’s nothing like unequal wealth to bring out the violence. She remembered the rich Nigerians she met back in Boulder, at CU. Oil money made those guys millions. Although this was her first trip to Africa, she knew more than she realized.

Her final destination was Accra, Ghana where her husband, Lane would meet her. In fact, Nao and Lane were quite cosmopolitan by any standard. They met eight years earlier in the School of International Affairs at Columbia University and the two of them were now living in two different countries. Two different worlds. She worked in Tokyo, Japan, and he was doing dissertation research in a village somewhere outside Ouagadougou in Burkina Faso.

Nao scanned her flight magazine to cram on Ghana. Flight Lieutenant Jerry Rawlings, a half-Scottish man of the people, was the leader. He seemed vaguely American in his handsomeness and lack of pretension. Nao also read about Liberia, a former American colony to the west. Why have I never heard of this country? She read, "Liberia began as an American settlement before the American Civil War, as a place for free slaves to live and prosper. Almost twenty thousand freed slaves, free-born blacks and Afro-Caribbean relocated to Liberia." What does relocated mean? I’ll bet Liberia was the brainchild of an abolitionist.

Years earlier, at Columbia Nao heard stories about Africa. Lane’s fellow Africanists were seasoned Peace Corps-types, who wanted to get their Master’s degree to work for the UN or some other development agency. The Africanists loved to tell tales of violence, disease and sex. Shock the folks back home in Michigan. On the other hand, Nao’s fellow Japanologists were trying to answer Americans’ questions about Japan Inc. How do the Japanese do it? They’re not like us, but they’ve succeeded.

Nao was surprised when Lane said, “It’s a good thing we’re in different fields.” As if they were competing in two different Olympic events.

At Stanford, Lane did coursework for three years in African History while Nao worked in the International Center, advising foreign students. When Lane submitted his dissertation proposal, he was disappointed when the Foreign Language and Area Studies people offered him no fellowship. Nao secretly hoped Lane would then shift towards a more practical goal instead of history. But Lane’s father, Doctor Hart immediately offered to foot the bill for Lane to go to Ghana. She shouldn't have been surprised. Dr. Hart already paid for Lane's Stanford tuition, married student housing and even a small car. Nao's father-in-law’s generosity was beginning to grate on her nerves. But Nao’s anxiety was put to rest when the Japan Fulbright Commission offered her a plum job in Tokyo. That must be a special sign, she thought.

When the flight finally arrived in Accra, the missionary said, “Well, my dear. I’ll keep you and your husband in my prayers.”

Nao walked out into the sultry, thick evening air. The lack of night lighting was a shock. But she immediately spotted Lane who almost glowed white against the crowd of dark Africans. Thinner than ever, Lane looked like a dehydrated bamboo stalk in the midst of a lush forest. His blond hair was greasy, sweat stains appeared in the armpits of his dirty T-shirt, and his khaki pants sagged under his cinched leather belt. The darkness, heat and dust excited Nao. Only twenty-four hours earlier she had been walking through the gleaming corridors of Narita Airport.

She was happy to see her husband. The next two weeks would be completely out of her hands. I’ll let whatever happens, happen. Lane had rented one room of a modest un-air conditioned family house, from a local Ghanaian family. He introduced her to their host, a stocky woman, her head wrapped in a colorful kente cloth, and three children who sat wide-eyed, silently regarding this strange Asian woman in their home. There was not going to be much privacy with only a thin door between them and us. No chance for Lane and I to really thrash it out.

The Ghanaian woman spoke little English and Lane spoke haltingly in Akan, one of the eighty languages Nao learned was used in Ghana. The woman silently took Nao’s dirty clothes away to wash. With the heat and dust, Nao would have to have her clothes washed every day.

It had been many months since Nao last saw Lane. He departed East from Stanford, and she went West. Lane's weekly aerograms to Tokyo were filled with “I miss you. I love you” and details about his primitive living conditions. But he offered little insight into his dissertation work. Meanwhile in her letters to Lane, Nao described her busy life in Tokyo. Japanese students pouring into her office, eager for cultural and educational experiences in America. Nao felt her empathy for Lane drying up like an earthworm in the Colorado sun. She worried, What was Lane doing? What was their future together?

Lane laid out the huge paper map on the double bed and outlined his plan for the next two weeks. He said, “We’ll explore Accra, via public transport, of course. Nao, you’re going to see the real Africa, not the sanitized version. Then we’ll go out to the Cape Coast where the slave forts are.”

Nao’s hopes rose, like a faint wisp of smoke from a barely burning hearth. Is Lane going to come through, she thought. Even if he failed to notice his wife’s discomfort, and failed to talk about their future together, Nao was willing to hang onto this marriage if she could get another sign. Something to tell her to believe in her husband.

Lane took her on a city bus, a dilapidated vehicle so well used, there were holes worn through the floorboard. As the line of people got on, the seated men and women promptly took the children of the newcomers and placed them on their laps. Everyone made the best of the situation and took no notice of the white man and the Asian woman. As the bus weaved to and fro to avoid potholes, Nao noticed some women dressed in beautiful cotton kente fabric wrapped around their bodies but others wore blouses, dark skirts, but of course, no nylons in this weather.

Lane scoffed, “It’s a shame these women wear Western clothing.”

Nao was shocked but said nothing. Who was he to say what African women should wear? It was only a generation ago that Japanese women started wearing Western clothing.

As they walked around the campus of University of Accra, a tall young man waved at them. He was standing by one of the white colonial style buildings which dotted the campus along with man palm trees. Lane waved back and the young man approached, smiling. Seeing the joy on Lane’s face, Nao first thought, Does Lane know this man? The young man was dressed in worn but clean clothes.

The tall young man said in good English, “Hello, my friend. Are you enjoying the day?”

Lane said, “ Yes, thank you. My wife is visiting and I’m showing her the sights.” Nao noticed her husband beam with pride. See? I have friends here.

The young man laughed showing his beautiful white teeth as he shook Lane’s hand. “Very good. Very good. I am so happy you like our country.” He nodded to Nao who smiled back.

He said, “Please tell me, sir, from where do you come?”

Lane said, “I’m from California.”

The young man clapped his hands and said, “Oh! California! Hollywood! Rambo! I love Rambo.”

Nao wondered if Lane knew who Rambo was. They never watched action films.

Lane said, “I was just showing my wife, your wonderful campus.”

Was this man someone Lane knew? Maybe he could tell Nao something about this place. She had just noticed a curious stone monument carved in Japanese. A monument with the name Noguchi and the year 1928. Who was this Japanese man, and what was he doing in Ghana in 1928? It would be many years before Nao understood the significance of this Noguchi. Eisei Noguchi was a bacteriologist who inspired other Japanese, including her father, to immigrate to America.

Puzzlement flashed across the young man’s face at Lane’s words. But his white teeth flashed back on. “Please tell me, sir, do you do development work?”

Lane smiled. “Why yes—in a manner of speaking.”

The young man grew serious. “Please tell me, sir. Will you help me?”

Nao saw Lane tense. The young man said, “Please, sir. I need you to sponsor me so I can go to America.”

Nao saw right away—disappointment wash across Lane’s face. Lane wanted something this African wouldn’t or couldn’t give him. Friendship? Forgiveness?

When the young African saw Lane’s closed face, he turned away and didn't seem to even notice Nao. The young man must have thought she wasn’t American. He turned away and walked back to the building where he picked up a broom and began sweeping the sidewalk.

After getting off of the bus to the Cape Coast, Lane took Nao through a dusty road lined with shacks. The landscape was unfamiliar but Nao was surprised to see wide baskets full of dried fish. They preserved fish in the same way the Japanese did. Hoshizakana. And the Fufu looked so similar and was prepared just like one of Nao’s favorite foods—omochi.

It began raining and they stopped under the eaves of one shack to wait for the storm to pass. A thin man bent with age (or hard work?) approached Nao and Lane and motioned for them to come inside. He spoke little English but it was clear he wanted to get them out of the rain. Inside the dirt-floored single room, Nao and Lane were instructed to sit on the only chairs, while he and his family sat on the floor. The man was a gracious host, entertaining Nao in his broken English until the rain let up.

Listening to her Ghanaian host, Nao was reminded of George Meegan, an Englishman she met on her last Outreach Program outside Tokyo. When Meegan realized Nao was American, he eagerly told her about his Guinness World Record adventure. He had spent seven years walking along the back roads from the southern tip of South America, all the way through North America to the northernmost part of Alaska. Almost twenty thousand miles on foot. The Englishman relied on the hospitality of poor people like this man all along the way.

Meegan said, “The only time I felt I was in danger was when I walked through the American South.”

Nao felt ashamed. She could imagine the cold hospitality that greeted this foreigner on foot.

The highlight of Nao’s trip to Ghana was the three-hundred-year old slave forts. There were few visitors. Huge white washed stone buildings were built close enough to the ocean so the human cargo could be easily loaded onto wooden ships bound for America. Nao walked through a passageway where countless men, women, and children must have walked. The stone passageway grew more and more narrow. Until only one person at a time could have passed through the opening onto the slave ship. There was no turning back. Did these people wonder where they would be taken? If they would ever see their homeland again?

Walking through the five-hundred year old slave fort, Nao remembered something Lane told her when they first met in grad school, but its significance failed to register in the excitement of her move from Colorado to NYC. Lane was not her first white boyfriend but he was the first East Coast native. Nao grew up as the eldest daughter of Japanese immigrants in Colorado while Lane was the only son of a New England Brahmin. Lane's father was a prominent thoracic surgeon. Lane, his father, uncle and grandfather had all attended the same prep school - Deerfield. Lane was as exotic to Nao as she was to him. She noticed how often Lane mentioned the Deerfield school motto - Be Worthy of Your Heritage.

Lane told her this happened when he was back home from Deerfield for the holidays. He was looking through his parents’ attic and was delighted to find an old ship captain’s log. Then young Lane’s heart sank when he realized how his worthy ancestor made the family fortune—transporting slaves.

Nao remembered vague references to Lane's nervous breakdown. At a local restaurant near Lane's home, Dr. Hart pointed out to her, a substantial man seated across the room, “Oh, there’s Dr. Brown. Lane’s psychiatrist.”

At the slave fort, an epiphany crept into Nao’s brain. She had previously thought Dr. Lane and his wife were just exuberant. So different from her own parents, but in a good way. Mom and Dad never praised Nao or offered encouragement. At least directly. When Nao asked her mother why they were so different from her friends’ parents, Mom said, “Demo sonna koto shinai. But we (Japanese) don’t do that sort of thing.” At the beginning, Nao was charmed by Dr. Hart’s excitement over anything Lane showed interest in. Reggae music. African studies. African art. But the charm began to wear away over the next seven years. Dr. Hart’s avid interest in his son. All in the effort to prevent another nervous breakdown? She began to see her parents-in-law’s warmth as a sort of desperation.

She remembered the night Lane proposed. Only five months after she and Lane met, Dr. and Mrs. Hart invited them to a concert at Carnegie Hall and then a sumptuous dinner at the Russian Tea Room. At the end of the decadent dessert, Lane suddenly got down on one knee, produced a Tiffany box, and everyone stopped talking. A tear glimmered in the corner of Dr. Hart’s eye as he held his wife’s hand. Nao could only hear her Japanese parents saying, Never. Never make a scene. She mumbled, “Yes” but she wanted to say, “No. No, I’m not ready.”

The blazing African sun was relentless. After they walked through the slave fort and all of its exhibits, Lane took Nao to a shabby outdoor beach side bar where a lone elderly waiter silently greeted them. They ordered the only thing on the menu - Guinness beers. Served room temperature. The Atlantic ocean glinting with the late afternoon sun was so bright, Nao had to shade her eyes. In the distance she saw the bare chested fishermen standing in their simple boat, throwing nets into the azure sea. Powerful arms and bodies. Wet, black skin glistened as the muscles rippled beneath the skin. She had never seen such vigorous, dynamic physiques.

It was easy to imagine these fishermen three hundred years ago. Back then, in the New World, the colonials dreamed of getting rich off of the virgin land. When indentured laborers started dying in the fields, they tried using Native Americans. But Native Americans succumbed to the diseases from the Old World and did no better. That must have been when these traders noticed Africans. These black people withstood the heat, malaria, yellow fever, as well as survive the brutal voyage across the Atlantic. The white traders were clever, figuring out how to harness and make money off of these sturdy Africans. But they must have been terrified, too. Lying awake nights.

After Lane and Nao sat on the terrace for some time, sipping their bottles of warm Guinness, trying to catch a cooling sea breeze, the old waiter came back and pointed to the fishermen. He said, Best you leave before the fishermen come back. Nao saw Lane tense. He was afraid.

Before leaving Ghana, Nao noticed her supply of underwear had dwindled. The lady of the house must have taken them when she did the laundry. Nao smiled, imagining a thriving black market in sensible underwear somewhere in Accra. No problem, when the plane stopped over in Schiphol, she could pick up what she needed in the airport. But despite a good hour, looking through all the airport shops, Nao could only find what she imagined businessmen picked up for their mistresses back home. A set of expensive lacy panties and a bra, in scarlet red.

1989 Tokyo

Lane agreed to handle all the paperwork for the divorce once he got back to the States. Nao didn’t want anything. She didn’t want to hire a lawyer. But knowing Lane, she guessed that he would probably get his father to do the dirty work. She imagined Dr Hart picking up the phone. Maybe he called an old prep school classmate, one who would be discrete and not ask too many questions.

“Hey, Bud. I need a favor.”

“My son needs to get out of a marriage that didn’t work out.”

“Yes, that Japanese girl he met at Columbia.”

“No. No. She’s the one who wants the divorce. But Lane’s agreed to it and asked me to help.”

“Let’s see. They married in ’81. So that’s seven years.”

“No, there’s no children.”

“No, I don’t understand it but his wife doesn’t want anything. Nothing.”

1990 Tokyo

When Lane called Nao with the news that Dr. Hart was dead, she immediately thought, Oh my God, I’ve killed him. As if I stabbed him with one of his own scalpels.

Lane told her his father was found in his car outside New Jersey Memorial where he had just finished his shift as head thoracic surgeon. He had had a heart attack. Across the Atlantic, across the African continent, across India and China, Nao imagined the doctor’s heart breaking when his only son told him, “Sorry Dad, you can’t fix this.”

In retrospect, Nao wondered if maybe Lane had been right all along. History was what needed to be studied. But not history based on facts and figures. Or artifacts and fossils. No, this had to be a history of spirit, emotion and thought. Where would one find this history? In brain cells and nerve endings? Or would there be faint imprints left in the earth, like invisible footprints? No, this history lay in the collective soul of mankind. An inaccessible memory locked in the genetic code of the very first man and his awareness of a human credo.