How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [80]
He pushed the pastry plate at me and I took one. “I have decided that this is not your fault. Especially your young one.” He bowed his whole upper body. “I apologize for my outburst.”
I frowned. “Why couldn’t you have given Mom a chance thirty or forty years ago?”
His face darkened again. “Some things are not easy to forgive. For instance, what your country did to us. How could I embrace a man from our enemy country as my brother-in-law?” Taro pointed his finger into the air. “It’s all about karma. Your mother’s karma is bad, unfortunately. Perhaps this is why her heart is now failing. The United States has bad karma from using the A-bombs. This is why you were attacked by terrorists.” He took a bite of cold egg. “But, by forgiving her now, I am improving my own karma, and perhaps hers.”
Anger built in my gut. Must everything have a payback, a reward or punishment? I knew I should accept that he wanted to give us a chance, however unreasonable his logic, but I couldn’t help myself. “What about those sarin gas attacks on Tokyo subways? Those were terrorist acts by your own people. What is that repayment for? The Rape of Nanking?”
“Fictional propaganda,” he said flatly.
“If my mother’s heart is her karma, then what about your other sister, Suki? What did she ever do?”
He shut his eyes ever so briefly. “My little sister. Who knows? Perhaps it is karma for our whole family.” His face paled and his hands shook a little as he took a sip of tea.
“Shoko left because she was in love with my father, Uncle Taro, not to hurt you.”
His voice rose and his color returned. “Your mother left to get what she could out of your father, because she could not stay here. She only hurt herself.”
“She’s had a better life than she would have in Japan.” But for a moment I doubted that. Would she not have been better off here, with her siblings who raised singers and teachers and sports champions?
Taro put his arms on his head and chuckled. “You are like your mother. Never give up. Your face looks exactly like hers when she got mad.” He touched my cheek. “I thought you would be an ugly gaijin. But I can see her face in yours.” He dropped his hand. “I would not be telling the truth if I said I had closed my heart to Shoko-chan. Every day”—his voice choked—“every day I have remembered her.”
Sumiko appeared. “Ojı̄chan! Thank you for feeding our guest. I am glad you are back.”
He acknowledged her with a wave. “If you will excuse me, it is my day at the temple.” He left the room.
“He is not always so gruff,” Sumiko said. “He is a very kind man. But in this one way, it seems he is stuck, you see?” She smiled. “We go to church this morning. It is Mitama service. You would like to come?”
A FEW PEOPLE MINGLED outside Taro’s church, waiting for services to begin. Sumiko got her son out of the car. “Do what I do, if you are comfortable.”
We washed our hands in a basin near the door. One wall was covered with notes—prayer requests. I looked up at the dark wood beams of the roof. A platform spanned the entire front of the church. There were three altar areas; the one to the left had photos of people in white priests’ robes and offerings of fruits and vegetables on pillars in front of it; the middle looked like a larger version of Mom’s miniature altar; and on the right was a windowed booth, where a man in white robes sat with his face in profile to them.
Helena grew quiet. She wore the one dress she had brought with her, a long flowered one that looked like she stole it from her grandma Kate’s wardrobe. She reached for my hand and squeezed. “How come you never take me to church?”
I felt a guilty stab. “I didn’t know you wanted to go.”
The only church I’d had limited access to as a child was my dad’s Mormon one; Mom made clear her feelings about that. There was no Konko church in San Diego. The closest one was in L.A. I prayed with Mom often, but Dad never prayed at home, perhaps because my