How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [77]
Through an open screen, I saw a small room whose floor was covered in tatami mats, and a big window looking to the garden, providing most of the light in here, as well.
“Why the English, Sumiko-chan? Gaijin imasu ka?” a jovial voice said from another room that I couldn’t see.
“Foreigners, he’s asking,” I whispered.
“I knew that from the first five minutes we were here, Mother.” Helena smiled and sat on a red cushion.
“Iie,” Sumiko responded in the negative. She glanced to us, at a loss for what to call us, then flashed a quick, reassuring smile.
A chubby-cheeked boy wearing Spider-Man underwear whipped open the shoji screen and ran screaming into the room. “Okāsan! Okāsan!” he screeched, leaping into her arms.
“Taro-chan!” A man in his late sixties rushed after him, holding a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. He stopped at the sight of us.
We took each other in for a moment. His gray hair was thick on his head, and his eyes were deep brown and nearly disappeared under his bushy black eyebrows. His cotton kimono was dark navy, with a white kanji symbol repeated all over.
He bowed, covering up his surprise and turning to Sumiko, then back to us. “Hajimemashite. Amerika no kata deshō ka?”
“He-llo,” I stammered, forgetting my Japanese altogether. Helena clasped her hands together and, instead of bowing, dipped into a low, dramatic curtsy.
“Hello,” Taro said in English. “Nihongo ga dekinai,” he said to his granddaughter scornfully. They don’t speak Japanese.
“Sukoshi,” I said. A little.
Never before had I seen one of my mother’s immediate relatives in person. I couldn’t stop staring at his face, which looked a bit like my mother, and a lot like the photos of my long-dead grandfather. He was more stoutly built than my grandfather had appeared, his chest a barrel and his legs thick, his feet flat and wide. Peasant stock from my grandmother, my mother would say. Hard to push over.
“I will speak English, then,” Taro said. “Sumiko, these are your friends?”
“Yes. No.” Sumiko pulled Taro-chan’s shirt over his head. “It’s a very strange occurrence, Ojı̄chan. These are your nieces.”
Taro’s brow furrowed.
“Shoko’s daughters.”
“This is my daughter, Helena,” I corrected Sumiko. “I am Shoko’s daughter.” I bowed now. It seemed the right thing to do.
He glowered. “Why do you come here? Money?”
I felt heat rising from my neck. Yasuo had warned us.
“Why would we come all the way to Japan for money?” Helena crossed her arms. “Do you know how expensive plane tickets are?”
Taro’s eyes flickered with amusement. “Ah, true. You are here for another reason.”
I collected myself. “May we sit down and talk?”
Taro did not hesitate. “Tell me so I can decide whether to have you here or not.”
“Aren’t you the least bit glad to see us, Uncle?” Helena spread her arms out dejectedly.
Sumiko put one arm around her. “Ojı̄chan, they came to reunite. It is wonderful.”
Taro grunted. It reminded me of Mike.
Everyone was a stranger to me. The family I had grown up with. The family I had just found. I knew them, yet they were no closer to me than a casual acquaintance. Only Helena was mine, and even she became, by turns, a stranger as she neared her teens. My lip trembled and I made it stop. “Shoko’s sick, Uncle.”
Momentary concern passed over Taro’s face before he controlled it. “Caught some American disease, eh? I am not surprised.”
Sumiko covered her mouth with her tiny hand. “Ojı̄chan!” she said. “Sit down, Cousins, please. Let us have tea.”
“No!” he said. “I will not have these traitors in my home.” He ranted in Japanese until even little Taro was agog.
Helena was near tears. I drew myself up and looked him square in the face. What I saw there was not anger, but fear and exhaustion. He knew this was silly. He knew, but his pride wouldn’t let him admit it.
I bowed. “Of course we will leave if