How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [27]
“What do you think I should do?” I was afraid to hear his answer, but I was a practical girl and knew what was coming.
“You must casually see them, find out what you can about each. Then you can marry the best one. It’s very simple.”
“But what if I can’t?” Speaking to men in a foreign language, saying not just the price of an item but having real conversations, seemed impossible. I was also thinking about Ronin, though I could not tell my father this.
“Many people have managed.” My father’s voice was warm. “Because I cannot meet them all, I have a suggestion. Take pictures of the ones you like the best and I’ll help you choose.”
I agreed.
At the gift shop, I began accepting the Americans’ offers. I had a different date every night, and ended up seeing several casually. Dinner and a movie.
They were all very interesting men in their own ways. One was from Boston, one from Atlanta, one was a pig farmer from Iowa, one was a blond boy from Los Angeles. I dropped most of the ones who tried to get fresh.
I returned home again to see my parents. “The only problem is I’m not sure they all have marriage on their minds,” I told my father as he had his tea. “They want fun.”
“Not too much fun.” He smiled and slurped at his cup, closing his eyes in thought. Perhaps he prayed. Then he opened them. “You will know, Shoko. You are a good judge of character.”
I thought of Tetsuo. Not always, I thought. I went back to work.
Charlie became one of my Americans. He came into the gift shop one night with his friends, acting very nervous.
I had never seen anyone like him. He had red hair! No Japanese person had red hair. And he had freckles, and was skinny like a little boy. He was short for an American, but still tall for a Japanese. His blue-green eyes stared at me. He wore a blue dress shirt, blue tie, and black pants.
A Japanese girl clung to him, wearing too much lipstick and a low-cut blouse. Her eyebrows were shaved and then drawn in. She looked down her nose at me.
I smiled at Charlie, and he blushed beet red. He disengaged himself from the girl. I went over to him. “May I help you, sir?”
“Cigarettes?”
I got him a pack. He pointed to some chocolates and handed me some money. “The chocolates are for you.”
“Thank you.” I smiled nicely at him, trying to figure out his rank. Not confident enough for an officer, I decided. It didn’t really matter. The American dollar was so strong that all the servicemen, even the enlisted ones, were rich here. The girl with him glowered. My heart beat faster.
“You speak English real well.”
I bowed my head. “Thank you, sir.”
His friends laughed. He blushed. “Call me Charlie.”
“Okey-dokey, Charlie.” I’d heard “okey-dokey” from another guy. I liked how it sounded. I started walking away, my wooden geta shoes clattering, but Charlie leaned toward me.
“Are you free later?” he asked.
I shook my head, an American custom I had observed. He probably thought I was another cheap girl.
Charlie smiled, and his face looked gentle and kind. “How about tomorrow? I’ll take you to a movie.”
“Yes, I can do that,” I said, my eyes lowered.
EVEN THOUGH I WAS SEEING AMERICANS , I still saw Ronin during my lunch breaks. He was an interesting friend, that was all, I told myself. Not even a real Eta, since his father was European. I made all sorts of excuses to myself.
Of course, Ronin was still supposed to be off-limits, but he was right that in this day and age when Americans dated Japanese, it hardly seemed to matter too much. Old rules didn’t apply. At least, not to this degree of casual friendship.
“Can you go anywhere and dance?” I asked him one day. We were sitting on the edge of the fountain in the middle of the maze. He had brought me a bento box packed by the hotel—a sticky rice ball rolled up with salt, covered in a seaweed wrap; steamed swordfish; and a spinach salad sprinkled with sesame seeds. The hashi—the chopsticks—were wrapped in a cloth napkin and secured with a tie.
“Of course.” He lifted up half the salad with his hashi and popped it into his mouth. “People at nightclubs don’t know