How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [31]
Taro, arriving at last, skidded to a halt. “No, oh no,” he breathed. “What did he do?”
“Ronin!” I shouted again, before I fainted. My brother caught me.
I AWOKE IN TARO’S ROOM. Late-afternoon sun, the color of tangerines, bathed the Western furnishings with an eerie glow. I wondered if it had been a dream. It had to have been. Indigestion, no doubt.
Then I saw my brother, in a chair near the window. I sat up abruptly. “You killed him!” I shrieked, launching myself toward him. My fist caught him on the jaw; off guard, he lost his balance. I hit him again, not caring about the popping noise from my hand, punching his chest as hard as I could.
“I didn’t know! I didn’t know. Tetsuo is insane!” Taro said. I hit him again and again and he did nothing to restrain me, he stood like a scare-crow. I cracked him in the nose and he began bleeding.
My brother would only look at me. “You can hit me if it will make you feel better. I thought he would rough him up at worst, tell him to stay away from you.”
I gulped and sat on the bed. The sight of the blood was making me feel faint again. “Did you tell the policeman who did it? Or did you cover that up for your friend?” Tetsuo—who would have thought he was capable? For a second, I had to count myself lucky that I hadn’t married him.
“Yes. They’re looking for him.” He brought me to him in a hug. “I didn’t know—I was trying to protect you.”
“Then you should have been born first.” I fell onto the bed, crying and beating my fists on the scratchy coverlet. What had Ronin done besides show me some kindness? This was all my fault. My vanity. I should have told him to go away and never return, or I should have gone with him. I was too weak to do either. Fickle. I berated myself and wept until I was empty. I stared up at the ceiling, eyes burning dry.
I stayed for two days. Taro came in and out, bringing soup, patting my back, pleading with me to get up. I ignored him.
When Taro couldn’t rouse me, he told the hotel I’d taken ill and took me to my parents’ home, me leaning on his shoulder as though I were deathly ill as we walked through the hotel.
The workers came out to say good-bye. “Come back soon.” Mr. Lonstein touched my shoulder softly. I wondered if he knew what had happened, if he even noticed that his best gardener and desk man were gone for good. His eyes pitied me. I leaned against Taro even harder.
An important criterion in choosing your American mate is his blood type. Military men often wear identifying necklaces, “dog tags,” which bear the blood type. Learn the English letters and recognize them.
AB—The worst kind. They do whatever they want whenever they want. They make horrible husbands.
A—They are reliable and calm.
O—They are social but sometimes need more pushing to finish what they start.
B—Very practical, but dull.
O goes best with other O’s and AB’s.
A can marry A or AB.
B can marry B or AB.
AB can marry anyone who will let them.
—from the chapter “A Map to Husbands,”
How to Be an American Housewife
Nine
A week after Ronin died, I awoke to see Father sitting beside me, a lacquered box of photographs in his hand. I had done as he had asked, dutifully sent him pictures of my Americans, every one I thought I could possibly live with, or who at least would want to marry me. “Shoko-chan, feeling better?”
I nodded slowly.
“It’s time to look at your photos.” He sounded cheerful, as though we were going to engage in a delightful task.
I sat up. As my father looked through the black-and-white pictures, he asked, “Is there one in particular you like?”
I could not have cared less. I told myself I had to get over Ronin. In relative terms, my troubles were tiny.
“Anyone?” Father prompted.
“No,” I whispered. I closed my eyes. Father would pick this time, not me. I couldn’t be trusted.
“I will look at their eyes.” Father flipped through. “This one looks shifty.” He tossed out the Iowa pig farmer. “Undependable.” He threw out the man from Boston. “This one, this one has honest eyes.” He stopped at Charlie.