How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [28]
“I could never marry an Eta.” I took a bite of the cool rice ball. “My parents would throw me out.”
“But you’d marry one of these Americans you run around with,” he said, leaning close to me. “Someone you don’t love, just to leave.”
Before I could respond, he drew me in close and kissed me. I knew I shouldn’t let it happen, but I did. The kiss went on for what felt like minutes before I pushed him away.
“How dare you!” I said, getting up. I started running back toward the hotel.
“Shoko, wait!” Ronin said, coming after me, but I didn’t stop. He caught my arm and whirled me toward him. “Shoko, we can go to America together. It will be a new beginning. I’ve already applied for my passport. I will take you there.”
“No,” I said, surprised at the shame I felt. There was a certain cachet in marrying an American, but not in marrying an Eta. Americans were up, Eta were below down. Even if it was unfair, I couldn’t change it. “They’ll never grant you a passport, Ronin.”
He kissed me again, as if to try to convince me. His arms felt strong and safe, his body hard against mine. I inhaled the smell of him, cut grass, earth, and salt. “Meet me here tonight,” he said. “Midnight.”
“All right,” I said. My knees actually felt weak.
I’d never felt anything like what I felt with Ronin. That night, and every Friday night for weeks after, I met Ronin in the garden. They were the happiest hours of my life, but I was also plagued with guilt, both for leading Ronin on and for what my family would think if they saw me. I would have to choose between my family and my love. Deep down, I knew I could not do this to my family. It was my job to marry well, not bring generations of shame to them.
Slowly I started dropping some of the American men I was seeing informally. Their laughter and easy ways no longer seemed as appealing. The time for superficial fun was over. I was not enjoying being single, with all these freedoms, as much as I thought I would. At the end of the day, my feet hurt and dancing became tiresome. My job at the hotel was so easy I could do it half asleep, yet there was no opportunity for promotion. I was twenty now, and because my situation would not improve on my own, I wanted to marry someone who could help it improve.
I took photographs of the men I thought were the best prospects, the ones who treated me respectfully, who held the door open for me and made efforts to communicate. I kept these in a special black lacquered box, inlaid with white mother-of-pearl cranes, to show my father later. I would marry the American of his choice, I decided. If I could not marry Ronin, I might as well marry any of these men. They were interchangeable to me. My father would at least have the guidance of prayer to help him, while my instincts seemed poor at best, leading me down difficult paths.
Charlie took me out several times. We went dancing, but Charlie was a horrible dancer, so we stopped that, to the relief of my feet in their high heels. We saw American movies, subtitled in Japanese. Mostly we sat and talked, or attempted to talk, over food, always ending with an American-style ice cream cone. If I didn’t watch out, I’d gain too much weight for him to be interested.
ONE DAY, my brother came to see me and Tetsuo during his spring break, and stayed in a room at the hotel. They were still friends, even though Tetsuo was a cad. “Who can blame him,” Taro said callously, “after he was stuck with an elephant like you.”
I hit him in the shoulder, hard enough that he rubbed it. “I hope you’re doing well in school, little brother,” I said. He was in his final year. “Or else I won’t pay for the rest.”
“Don’t worry,” Taro said. “This hotel is nice. Maybe I’ll have a party tonight.”
“Be good,” I warned. His room was nice, much better than his cramped apartment at his college. This was American-style, with a bed off the floor, carpeting, curtains to keep out the light, and a radio.
“Testuo will be here,” Taro said,