How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [73]
“Obāchan never told you stories?” I thought she had, during one of the many times Helena spent with her. Helena seemed to be much closer to my mother than I could ever be. But perhaps she was no closer than I was.
“Not many. She said they were too boring for me.” Helena considered the land. She walked away from us, staring through her viewfinder at something I couldn’t see.
“Is it hard, being a single parent?” Yasuo stared at the horizon.
“Only every day.” I flashed a smile, picking up a round black stone from the tall grass. It was cold. I closed my fist around it.
“You were in love?” he prompted.
I glanced at him, startled by the question. No one had ever asked me this. I stuttered. “Too young, I suppose.”
“I was married once, too.” Yasuo gave me a kind look. “Right after college. It was a marriage of convenience. She knew what I was like.” He shook his head. “In the end, she wanted more than I could give.”
“Sometimes things don’t work out.”
“It hurts, even if it wasn’t meant to be.”
For a moment I stood and committed the scene to memory. Dark dirt and stones and knee-high grasses. The occasional glint of broken glass. Aunt Suki, Mom, and Taro running through the fields, before the war. My own heavy heart. I put the stone in my pocket and walked to the car. “Helena, time to go, love.”
She followed.
WE DROVE to the east side of Kyushu. “The jet foil takes one hour.” Yasuo hugged each of us. “Catch the bus to Uwajima—it’s four miles south. I do not know his exact address, but it is not hard to find. There’s not much on Shikoku.”
“Thank you.” Helena hugged him again impulsively. “So far you’re my favorite person in the country! I wish you could come with us.”
Yasuo laughed. “I wish I could. But I must work. I hope we will meet again.” He gave me a piece of paper. “Here is my e-mail and home address. Please, if it doesn’t go well, come back again. Stay with us. Good luck to you.” We squeezed onto the water taxi with the other people heading to Shikoku, and waved as it roared away, the front of its hull lifting out of the water.
ACCORDING TO MY GUIDEBOOK, Shikoku was the least visited of all the Japanese islands. The main attraction was an eighty-eight-stop Buddhist temple tour, or pilgrimage, which the book said took between one and two months to complete.
As the sun broke through the marine layer, the sea revealed itself to be a gorgeous turquoise, dotted by small islands with mountains. The air was warm for March, humid with salt. I inhaled, feeling sunshine on my eyelids, a spray of seawater hitting my face. This I could get used to. Helena was absolutely green. “Please tell me we can drive back.”
“Lean over the rail if you have to.” I stroked her hair.
We docked in Masaki, north of Uwajima. A white lighthouse perched atop a hill in the distance. We straggled off the boat and waited for Helena to get her land legs back. Up the shore stretched white sand beaches bordered by evergreen trees beyond. In America, there would be mansions replacing the trees.
Helena recovered, popping a piece of mint gum into her mouth. “Is this it?” The shrine had a wooden platform and torı̄ gates, which were two poles with two beams across. Tourists milled about, cameras at the ready, spilling out from three tour buses parked nearby.
“No, Yasuo said it was down the road. Maybe this one is part of the temple tour.” I looked at the bus schedule. Half an hour to kill. We climbed up the steps to investigate.
Helena got to the top first, and jumped back. “Holy cow!”
There was an enormous wooden penis, carved out of a giant tree, laid on its side, complete with monstrously sized veins. I flushed and grabbed Helena’s shoulders, spinning her around. “Okay, Helena, it’s just a tourist trap. Let’s go see if we can find a snack stand. I’m starving.”
Helena twisted out of my grip. “What is that thing? A tree?”
“Yes.” I headed down the steps, hoping irrationally that she would follow. Instead she ran back to the top.
“That’s a penis!” she shouted.
“Shh.” Try to remain calm, I told myself.