How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [67]
Mom had also taken care with her cooking for class potlucks. While everyone else slapped together a casserole or a green salad, to Mom the potluck was a point of family pride. She would either borrow the neighbor’s giant pasta pot and make a boatload of spaghetti, or make pizzas from scratch. All day she’d bake or stir the sauce. “Enough for army,” she would say happily. “Nobody else do it, huh? Mine is best.” I was filled with pride for my mother as my classmates clamored for her food.
I did the same for Helena. Even if I had to stay up into the wee hours, I would make a homemade mac-and-cheese casserole that the other mothers raved over, or homemade cupcakes instead of store-bought for her class parties. And I took special pleasure in it, just as my mother had. At least in this I am best, my plate of cupcakes said.
I played with the remaining nattō on my plate, wishing it were a cup-cake instead.
“Aren’t you going to finish it?” Helena asked.
I wiped my mouth. “Another thing to know. In Japan, if you want to have more, you eat it all. If you are done, leave a little food on your plate.”
“All these rules.” Helena rubbed sleep from her eyes.
“Think of all the unspoken rules we have, Helena.”
“Like finishing our food?” Helena picked up the rolled egg omelet with her chopsticks. “A doughnut wouldn’t kill anybody.”
“Maybe tomorrow.” I smiled at her and finished my breakfast, still remembering my mother with every bite.
When assimilating into America and making new acquaintances, remember that Americans are a somewhat aloof group of people. They may avoid conversations of a personal nature, unlike Japanese.
This repression is difficult to become accustomed to, especially given the too-gregarious nature of other American habits, such as public hugging and back-slapping. It is puzzling to the Japanese person: why is it wrong to talk about personal subjects, but not wrong to hug someone you have just met?
It is best to smile and go along with what the American wants.
—from the chapter “Turning American,”
How to Be an American Housewife
Five
The small house was easy to find. Two lines, one above the other, stood for number two. It was close to its neighbors, built out of weathered wood with a simple tile roof. It looked very old, like modernization didn’t quite make it this far. The door practically opened onto the street, and it was windowless at its front. Behind was a rectangle of fenceless land. White towels and boxer shorts fluttered in the wind.
“Mom.” Helena waved her hand in front of my face. “Are we going to stand here forever?”
“Go ahead and knock.” I nodded to the door.
“You do it.” She shrank behind me.
I felt her anxiety. What if he shut the door in our faces? Or worse, was dead? It was strange not to know an entire side of the family. Dad’s family were on the East Coast, but at least they were on the same continent, and had always been easily available by phone.
I knocked. No one answered.
“He couldn’t even hear you.” Suddenly brave, Helena pounded with two fists.
I grabbed her shoulder. “Stop.”
Someone shuffled to the door and creaked it open, Haunted Mansion-style. A salt-and-pepper-haired Japanese man, probably in his early forties, blinked at the sudden light. He drew his kimono close around him. Was this our cousin Yasuo, Suki’s son? I momentarily held out my arms to embrace him, then remembered. Japanese did not hug. As my mother did not. “Sumimasen,” I said, “Watashi-wa Suiko.”
He interrupted in flawless English. “Aaah. Your pronunciation is terrible.”
“Yasuo?” I bowed.
His smile cracked his face, a plate breaking. “Yasuo doesn’t live here anymore. He moved to Kikuchi City.” He started to shut the door.
“Wait.” I stuck my foot into the door, certain the wood was old enough to break. “Surely you’ve got an address.”
“If you have business with him, you should have his address, not me.” He pushed my foot back with his bare one.
“We’ve come all the way from America.” Helena turned her big eyes up to him, tearing up. She was either exhausted or an excellent