How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [69]
“I’m always happy, Helena.” And for once, I felt this was mostly true. I was happy here, even as we got lost and my feet blistered and I didn’t know where we would be the next night. I felt as calm as if everything were already taken care of. I waved to a passerby. “Let’s find this high school.”
American males, like Japanese males, have lives outside of the home, at work, in hobbies, and in other arenas. They often wish to keep this part of their lives separate from their domestic lives. This is normal and natural and not to be taken as hurtful.
The good Wife will not question where her husband has been or what he has been doing, or with whom. Such pryings will drive your husband away. It is important to mind your own business and stay within the arena of domesticity.
—from the chapter “A Map to Husbands,”
How to Be an American Housewife
Six
Ueki High School was a few miles down the bus route, a gray rectangle three stories high, with pine trees shading the lawn into oblivion.
In the office, a woman about thirty with a flipped-up bob worked behind a computer. Her red lips smiled. “Ohayō gozaimasu.”
“Ohayō. Sumimasen,” I began. “Yasuo Tanaka . . .”
“Tanaka-sensei?” She bowed and we bowed back and she bowed again. I held my breath, afraid that this would continue like a Marx Brothers gag until Christmas came. She continued in English. “How do you call yourself?”
Helena’s white teeth flashed. “We’re American cousins.” The lady smiled again and motioned to the bright orange plastic chairs.
When I was in college, my work-study job one semester was being a teacher’s aide to a high school English class. I had taught adverbs versus adjectives to a mostly uncaring classroom; yet at its end, the students made me thank-you cards, and most passed the final. “Did you make them do this?” I asked the regular teacher. He had not. I had gripped my sheaf of handmade cards and decided to become a teacher.
I thought about this as I sat down, feeling a pang as I watched a couple of students pass by. Around the office, photo portraits of serious men and a few women hung on the walls, obviously a gallery of the school’s principals over the years. One of these must be Taro. I studied them, looking for resemblances to Mom, but found no one.
A few minutes later, the office door opened and a trim man in a pink-and-purple argyle sweater vest, purple button-down shirt, and dark slacks entered. His graying hair was cut close to his head and bald in front. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and carried an art portfolio. “Suiko?” He bowed. “This is most unexpected.” An understatement.
“Yasuo?” He had Mom’s same broad forehead and pointed chin. And he knew my name. I smiled at him. “This is my daughter, Helena.”
He stared at my face, too. “Ah!” Suddenly he leapt forward and hugged us both. I hugged him back, touched. “I thought I wouldn’t see you until I died. My dear, dear cousins.”
We followed him into the teachers’ lounge, furnished with round tables. “Sit, sit.” He hustled to the counter. “Coffee? Tea? Or me?” He laughed. “Are you on a tour?”
“Tea, please. I’m getting used to green tea, Mom. Even with no sugar.” Helena swung her feet.
“Tea also, please.” I cleared my throat. “We came here to find Taro.”
Yasuo stopped pouring for a second, his eyes raised to the black cabinets. Perhaps I had been too abrupt. What a strange, sad look came across his face. “He used to be principal here. Now he is retired, a priest. Konko religion. Like our grandfather. He lives in Uwajima now.” Yasuo brought over the tea. “You don’t need to see him.”
“I do need to see him.” I told him about my mother’s heart and what she had asked me to do.
“Same as happened to my mother. I am sorry to hear it.” He nodded slowly. “Such is the cycle of life. One dies, one is born.”
My mouth went dry. “She’s having surgery. She’ll be fine.”
His eyes were doubtful. “The radiation weakened the heart, I’m afraid.”
“Radiation?