How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [44]
Ronin. I had forgotten the picture. “Nobody. Some guy I work with have crush, give me picture.” I kept my voice casual, even disdainful. “Too late make dessert.” I went into the dining area and sat down. I would begin telling her now. Now or never. “Suiko-chan, how many times I go back Japan?”
“Never.”
I used to talk about visiting all the time, when I still thought Charlie would get promoted and we would have the money for it. To show Sue where she came from, show Mike. I had stopped talking about it a long time ago.
The timer beeped. “Noodle done.”
Sue went to get the pot, but Charlie practically pushed her aside. “I’ll do it, sweetie.”
Sue and I watched nervously as he limped to the sink. This man used to lift bleeding men from the ground to a stretcher. He would not admit to needing help with a pasta pot. He sloshed the water into the sink, the hot water splashing up at him.
Sue put her head by mine. “Mom, what were you saying?”
No. Not now. “Tell Helena and Mike time for dinner.”
CHARLIE TURNED ON THE TV for the news. Mike came and sat with us, sticking his fork into his plate before his bottom touched the chair.
Sue smiled uncomfortably at her brother. “You liking work?”
“They could pay me more.” Mike was already halfway through his plate. “I gotta go.” He was out the door, a wind whipping through.
I poked at my plate. My hunger had been low lately. Sue and Helena ate steadily. I waited for them to be done. Waiting was my best skill now.
I should have removed that photo Sue found in the Housewife book. It belonged in a photo album, not stuck as a bookmark in a dusty, forgotten volume. Better that Sue had it and the book. I hoped she could use it.
For the first years of my marriage, it had been my handbook, my guide to doing everything. Rules for living, American style. Sometimes it was right, and sometimes it was not. Sometimes I liked it, and sometimes I didn’t. But that was just like life. You don’t always get to do what you want, do you?
In the Japanese household, it is assumed that the man will earn the money and the woman will manage it to accommodate the family’s needs.
American husbands earn and manage money. Usually, an allowance will be given to his Wife to pay for household items. The Wife must stay within the household budget.
A Wife must not challenge his maleness by taking over budgetary matters. Do not fall into the trap of acting Japanese in this area.
—from the chapter “A Map to Husbands,”
How to Be an American Housewife
Twelve
Sue stared at me from the couch in my living room. Her shirt had a bit of spaghetti sauce on it from the dinner we had just eaten. Like her father’s always did after every meal. I decided not to point this out presently. “I got tell you something.”
Charlie and Helena clattered in the kitchen, getting dessert ready. I had not discussed my plan with Charlie. With anyone. I did not need to. Nobody else had a say.
“Okay.” She shifted her body warily.
I played with the crocheted doily on the arm of my chair. Probably she believed I was about to give her another lecture, another reason to tune me out. But her eyes were wide. Expectant. I realized that she was worried about me. I had seen her touch the dust on the table, eye the messes piling up everywhere. The same way I would have. Unlike me, however, she had said nothing.
Of course she was worried. Her weak mother driving miles to see her, almost passing out in the grocery store. How much I had kept from her. I shouldn’t have. She was no child. Yet neither did I want to burden her.
I began my story, careful of my words. I measured how much I should tell her. So much history to be shared, all before Charlie could finish scooping out the bowls of ice cream. Not of Ronin. No, Ronin was my own. I did not want this shame to be hers, too. There were some things she was better off not knowing, just as there must be things I did not know about her.
I looked into my daughter’s eyes and talked.
“FIND MY BROTHER FOR ME, ” I finished. There, I ended it.
Sue looked down