How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [78]
He bowed back. “Do as you wish. I must be leaving.” He glanced at Sumiko.
“This is my house, my husband’s house,” Sumiko said. “They stay.”
“I will see you at a later time, it seems,” Taro said stiffly. He put Tarochan’s clothes down on the mat, put on his shoes, and left.
“He’s going to the church.” Sumiko dressed her son. “I am sorry for his outburst. I knew he had difficulties with your mother, but I did not know he would act so.” She bowed. “Forgive me.”
Helena lay on her stomach and rolled a red race car toward Taro-chan. “It’s not your fault.”
“One can be sorry without it being one’s fault.” Sumiko gestured to me. “Please, sit. I will bring out food.” She went into the other room.
“Mom, what is going on?” Helena asked. “How can he just throw us away after we came all this way to see him?”
“He was surprised. Maybe he needs time to recover.” I wanted to believe this.
Sumiko returned with a tray of sliced persimmons, coffee, and cakes. “This is all we have,” she said, handing us hot, moist towels. “I apologize again for my grandfather. Even though he is priest and Konkokyo says that all mankind gets along, he is still like that.” She picked up the persimmon. “It’s from being principal. He had to be strict with the students.” Taro would have been at home in South Central. “Where do you stay now?”
I brought up my shoulders. “Where’s the nearest hotel?”
Sumiko clasped my hand. “I would like you to stay here. You are welcome. My husband is a fisherman, out to sea most times. Ojı̄chan lives with us. His wife died a couple years ago.”
I bit into a persimmon. It tasted like a juicy date. “He won’t like it, Sumiko.”
“This is my house, not his.” She stood. “You are my family, too.”
I smiled at her. Only once had anyone from Dad’s family come out to see us from the East Coast—my grandma Millie, when I was about ten years old. Mom had spent two weeks getting ready for her visit. She fixed up a mattress on the floor of the spare room for me, giving Grandma my bed. “More comfortable,” she had said.
Then, after Grandma arrived, Mom wouldn’t let her do anything. Mom made elaborate meals and catered to every small need Grandma might have. “Let me do the dishes, Shoko,” Grandma would offer every night, looking concerned at the amount of energy my mother was displaying. Grandma Millie was in her sixties, gray-haired, and had commenced living a nomadic life in which she spent a couple of months with each of her children on the East Coast. Not us—we lived too far away, she said. She had Dad’s same blue eyes. I thought she was fascinating because she removed her teeth every night.
“You guest. No help,” Mom said, even as the strain made her lie down for longer periods.
“I’m family, Shoko. Family helps out.” Millie would watch her anxiously, then whisper to me, “Help your mama out, Sue. I can’t stand watching her do that.”
I watched Sumiko start clearing away the remnants of our snack and stood to help. “Sit, sit, you guest.” She brushed me aside.
“Tomorrow I’m family, and I help. Okay?”
She looked taken aback. “If you would like.”
WE SPENT THE REST of the afternoon and early evening looking at the family we didn’t know we had: pictures of Taro’s two sons and daughter getting married; the birth of Sumiko; Taro celebrating anniversaries with his late wife, Keiko; photos of Taro as school principal; and all the other milestones families always have pictures of. Sumiko had her own photos in neat albums; Taro’s were stuffed into three shoe boxes.
Taro looked entirely unlike the man we saw earlier: in these he was smiling, his arms always hugging those around him. There were a few of their grandparents and some of Suki and her husband and her children.
“Where are Taro’s children?” I picked up a photo of Taro holding a baby, many years ago.
“My parents live in Kumamoto City. My aunt went to Tokyo to be a singer—a jazz singer.”
“Really?” Helena was trying to put Taro’s photos into chronological order. “Can we go see her?