How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [79]
“You can hear her.” Sumiko went to the tansu and put a CD into the player. “God Bless the Child” came on, sung by a sweet, high, thin voice, backed by a piano.
“Wow.” Helena’s eyes widened. “Mom, you never told me we’re related to a professional singer.”
“I didn’t know myself.” I smiled. “What I don’t know about this family, Helena, could fill two books.”
“And my brother is a judo champion,” Sumiko added, returning to us and flipping an album to a photo of a diminutive, yet very solid, man on an Olympic podium, gold medal around his neck.
“We’re related to a celebrity!” Helena shrieked. “That is so cool.”
Taro-chan, lying on the floor and watching cartoons, stirred. Sumiko kissed Taro-chan on the cheek. “He is tired.”
Would Sumiko and the rest of the family be as pleased to see pictures of us? Did they ever think about Mike and me, and my mother and Helena, out in America? Or were we gladly forgotten?
Mom had rarely spoken of Taro. From his actions, I guessed that Taro had spoken of her even more rarely. Maybe talking about it hurt too much. Maybe he simply didn’t care any longer.
We had no singers or athletes in our little section of family in San Diego, or even on the East Coast, as far as I knew. Perhaps our Japanese relatives would be ashamed of our mediocrity, of my parents’ falling-down house and my own ramshackle one. Or maybe they would want to visit, just because we were not too far from Disneyland.
Helena yawned, and I did, too. More had happened in the past day than it had for the last half-decade of my life.
“Mom?” Helena stretched out beside Taro-chan. “I’m having a great time. Thanks.”
I smiled at her. “You’re welcome.”
It was seven now. Taro had not returned. Possibly he would not for as long as we stayed. The letter sat in my bag. I could leave it for him, but Mom wanted a reply. I did, too.
Sumiko smiled. “Bed?” She pointed toward the tatami room. “I will unroll your futons.”
One thing Americans and Japanese have in common is their can-do spirit. In America, you will find your hard work rewarded as it is in Japan. How fitting that America should have been the only one who could defeat Japan.
—from the chapter “Turning American,”
How to Be an American Housewife
Nine
I awoke to a sharp pain in my back. Taro-chan’s small foot was planted in my spine, his mouth open and drooling. Helena was on my other side. Sumiko slept on another futon across the room. Light filtered in brightly through the sheer blinds. The room was bare except for some shelves on the walls. Uncluttered. How different from my bedroom in San Diego, with old overflowing dressers and light-blocking dusty drapes.
From the other side of the shoji, I smelled breakfast. Eggs. I got up to use the bathroom, then went into the living area.
Taro sat at the table, reading a newspaper and drinking tea. He gave the barest nod, terrifying me. I couldn’t help thinking he had a weapon stashed in his kimono, even if his only weapon was an insult.
“Sorry,” I muttered, ready to return to the sleeping room.
“Sit. Have some tea. If you prefer coffee,” he added, “I’m afraid you will have to wait for Sumiko. She is the coffee drinker.”
“Your English is excellent.” Of course his English was good. He went to college, unlike my mother. An education for which she had largely paid.
His eyebrows went up. “Yes. I have studied it.”
“Why? Don’t you hate Americans?”
“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” he quoted, amused.
I sat down. The remains of a plate of scrambled eggs sat in front of him, along with an untouched platter of chocolate croissants. My stomach growled.
I wanted to act like my mother would, but I couldn’t think of what she would have done. Yelled? Thrown something? Hugged him? I squared my jaw.
I had to give him the letter, stuck in the pocket of my bag, Mom’s elegant chicken scratch so close together, it looked like a pattern.
I waited.
“I have been in meditation all night.” Taro put down the paper and folded his hands.
He examined my face, probably seeing my mother in me somewhere, in the longish