foot pedal, but, then, she had always operated the foot pedal with her right foot.
Mrs. Kimura was sympathetic and good-natured, even after Margaret had stalled the engine what seemed like a dozen times. All Mrs. Kimura did was smile and say, “You must be pleased this is Dodge car, not Ford car. Very difficult, Ford car. No starter. You get out every time. But even though this car four year old, it has starter.” Margaret thought going to the front of the car every time she killed the motor would be a lot of exercise.
At last, she managed to drive in a lurching loop around the pasture, arrive at her starting place, go forward again for a little bit, and then stop and turn the car off without feeling it more or less collapse underneath her. Mrs. Kimura came around to her side, and Margaret moved over. Mrs. Kimura took the wheel, and patted her on the wrist. She said, “We have plenty time.” They drove smoothly back to the garage and put the car away—that was all. No one received it, groomed it, fed it. Mrs. Kimura turned it off with a tiny key called a “magneto” key, and they walked away from it.
Her freedom, on her driving days, was complete. She took the ferry to Vallejo, moseyed toward the Kimuras’ shop, ate a bite, went into a few shops, and sensed Andrew diminishing in size to a distant point, as did the typewriter. Nor did he object to her being out for most of the day—they both knew that practice was essential. Soon she was bringing all sorts of gifts to the Kimuras, oranges and flowers and boxes of divinity. The gifts were accepted graciously, of course, and she therefore felt that she had to outdo herself, and so, one day, on the last day, she rustled Pete’s old hand scroll out of the closet. She had never looked at it, and she thought perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Kimura would enjoy opening it with her.
She drove all through the streets of Vallejo that day, a fragrant, sunny spring day, a break from eight or nine days of fog and drizzle. She stopped and started, paused, turned left and right, used her clutch with amazing smoothness—amazing to her. Mrs. Kimura sat quietly, smiling pleasantly and occasionally waving to people they passed. They were back at the shop by about three, and instead of bowing, shaking Mrs. Kimura’s hand, and departing, she bowed and opened her bag. She said, “I wish to show you what Pete Krizenko left in my keeping, and to learn from you and Mr. Kimura all about it.”
When she saw what Margaret had, Mrs. Kimura hurried into the back of the shop. She said something Margaret could hear in Japanese, and Mr. Kimura appeared at once. Margaret offered him the scroll. He took it gently, and led her into the back. There was a long table there, and he set the scroll down. Mrs. Kimura picked up the flower arrangement that was on the table and took it into the front room.
Margaret had imagined that the scroll would be some sort of wide picture, like the screens (which she had looked at once again since the first time), but it was, rather, a tall picture, about twenty inches wide and about four feet high. As Mr. Kimura unrolled it, from top to bottom, nothing appeared except some gray coloring, shaped like the slope of a mountain seen through the mist—hardly a shape at all, and yet present. Then there was a light-colored, sharp outline that turned into a wide-brimmed hat. At last there was a face, and bright color—a blue collar, a green sash. When the picture was entirely flat, Mr. Kimura grinned. The picture was of three figures—a tall woman (the one wearing the hat), who was looking down at a child, whose hand she was holding; behind them was another figure, short and leaning to the side, which could have been either male or female—no doubt a servant. The servant was also looking at the child, who was looking up at the woman, presumably his mother. The servant was dressed in a rich bronze color, the child in a softer tan that echoed the color of the mother’s hat. From their posture, it seemed as though the three were walking against a heavy breeze. At the bottom of the picture, she could see that they were treading through wavelets or puddles, carefully picked out