How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [68]
The man relented. “Ah, yes, his American cousins. He has spoken of you.”
“You know him?” I said, hopeful.
“Yes.” He contemplated us.
“We’re on a mission.” Helena drew herself up importantly. “We need to find Great-Uncle Taro.”
“Taro?” The man’s laugh turned into a shuddering cough. “Go to Ueki High School. Yasuo teaches art part-time. Good-bye, now.” He quickly closed the door, hasping the lock.
“Where’s Ueki High School?” I asked the closed door.
“Not even a cup of tea or anything.” Helena’s unlaced Converse kicked up dirt on the road. “I thought he’d invite us to a tea ceremony.”
“The man obviously wasn’t feeling well.” I wondered how he knew Yasuo.
“Where to now?”
Good question. Helena watched me expectantly. “We’ll go back to the hotel and ask for directions,” I said. I had no idea if the high school was a quarter mile away or ten miles away. We would find it no matter what, even if I had to carry Helena on my back.
I attempted to retrace our steps to the hotel, but all the buildings had changed. I was leading us down a trail of blown-away bread crumbs.
“We’re lost,” Helena said.
I opened the map. “If I look carefully at the symbols, we can find our way back.” I tried to match up the map with the street signs. Slow work.
Helena trudged after me. The streets became narrower, until we arrived at what appeared to be a town square. On a platform in the middle, a large gong hung from a wooden altar. “That’s what they ring at New Year’s to chase away the evil spirits.” I walked up the steps of the platform. “There’s one in San Diego, too.”
“Have you ever been?” Helena touched the gong.
“I don’t go out on New Year’s. You know that.” I smiled at her. “Maybe we’ll go next year.” Funny how, now that I could go out on New Year’s, I no longer wanted to. New Year’s was the most important holiday to my mother, not an excuse to party. In high school, I’d get the occasional invitation to a bash and have to turn it down. “Stay home,” Mom said. “Never know what gonna happen, crazies run around. Besides, New Year for family.”
I would spend the evening watching my parents snooze in front of Dick Clark. Mike had long gone. When he was a teenager, my mother had said, he went out on New Year’s. “Boys different,” she said. “And maybe was mistake. Mike too wild. We do right thing for you.” I had to pay for every time Mike watched too much television and failed a test, or smoked a reefer at the park and got picked up by the cops.
“I want to ring it.” Helena looped around. “Where’s the hammer?”
“It’s not New Year’s.” I didn’t want all the locals staring at us for breaking a taboo.
“It could be for any time. It’s in the middle of the square.”
I exhaled. “Please just listen to me for once.”
“Oh, Mom. I always listen to you.” Helena crossed her eyes and grinned. “I’m a good little girl.”
“We’ll find someone and ask where the high school is.”
Around the perimeter of the square were dozens of cherry trees, topped with clouds of pink, continuing all the way down the next road as far as we could see. Underneath, people picnicked on blankets spread out over the green grass. It was an Impressionist painting. My eyes filled.
“It’s so beautiful,” I whispered.
Helena shrank back. “Mom, what are you crying about? I swear, if it’s not a Hallmark commercial, it’s something else.” Nonetheless, she patted my hand.
I blew my nose into a tissue. “Get the camera, honey.”
“Only if you stop embarrassing me.” She reached into her knapsack. “Sheesh. They’re only flowers.”
“Stand by the trees.” I held my hand out for the camera.
She shook her head. “Of you. You never let me take pictures of you.” I hated getting my picture taken. Invariably, I was squinting, I had a double chin, or my mouth was twisted into a gargoyle grimace.
Dad had dozens of photos of Mom posing, shoulders back, bust out, hands on hips, red-lipsticked lips smiling like Lana Turner. From her twenties until now, her pose hadn’t changed. It said: Look at Me. Mine said: Don’t. Please.
Nonetheless, I stood by