How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [82]
I remembered. “And yet, people do change, Helena.”
“But we can’t expect it,” she prompted.
“Are you going to throw everything I ever said back at me?”
“Yep.” Helena grinned. “So let’s go see some stuff.”
“I thought you didn’t like historical sites.”
“I do, as long as you’re not lecturing me.” She leaned back on her black bar stool. “It’s nice here.”
We looked out at the water. “Less crowded than a San Diego beach.”
The only sounds were Helena clicking her chopsticks against the porcelain dish and seabirds cawing as they dove for fish. She swallowed. “Is it funny to feel homesick for a place I’ve never been before?”
I had been feeling the same way. “No.” As much as I called her “my” Helena, she was her own person, by turns introverted and extroverted, coming up with observations it took me years to figure out. “Do you know you’ve amazed me every day since you were a toddler?”
“Mo-om.”
“Of course, sometimes it’s sheer amazement at your craziness,” I said as Sumiko returned.
Sumiko pulled Taro-chan onto her lap. “Tales of Helena? Tell me.”
We lingered over lunch, talking now of our life in America. I watched Helena speak about her grandparents and her plays and her last algebra test, her hands flying around in the air to illustrate her stories, Sumiko covering her mouth as she giggled. Helena and I were not athletes or superstars, we were us. And that was enough.
TARO RETURNED LATE. Sumiko and I watched the news; Helena had already gone to bed, along with Taro-chan.
Taro acknowledged us with a nod. “How are the gaijin this evening?”
“They are family, not foreigners,” Sumiko corrected.
“Hmmmph.” He clanged in the kitchen, returning to the table with a dish of food and a rice bowl. He wore slacks and a light-brown short-sleeve shirt, buttoned up.
His serenity and dignity at church were completely at odds with the man sitting there, gobbling up rice grains and looking crotchety. “That was a lovely service today.”
“Are you Christian?” He ate an unidentifiable piece of fish. It smelled like caramelized soy sauce.
I paused, trying to think of how to explain what I was. I remembered the prayer I had made earlier. “I’m nothing, I guess.”
“No one is nothing.” Taro drank water. “Is that how my sister raised you?”
“No. She taught me what she could.” I braced myself for a join-my-church-it-will-save-you lecture.
Instead he looked at the news, chewing.
Sumiko excused herself.
It was quiet for a while. I watched him. I wanted to give him Mom’s letter. No time like now. How can Taro the priest turn down my mother’s request?
I went to my bag and got out Mom’s letter. I placed it on the dark lacquered table in front of him. “This is from my mother. I don’t know what it says, but I do know she wants you to respond.”
His eyes fell to the paper. Silence.
At last, he rose. “Suiko-chan”—he picked up his rice bowl—“it is very late. I will see you tomorrow.” He tucked the letter into his shirt pocket and shuffled off, his pant hems dragging, a very old man suddenly.
When Americans pass on, most choose burial. To Japanese, this is shocking, since being cremated purifies the spirit and gets it ready for the afterlife.
It may be possible to have your spouse or children obey your wishes for cremation. They could also refuse, and you may have to accept that now you are American in every way, even after death.
—from the chapter “Turning American,”
How to Be an American Housewife
Eleven
In the morning, Taro had already left, though I woke as soon as first light hit my eyelids. Taro didn’t return all morning.
I helped Sumiko clean the house. Was Taro avoiding me on purpose?
“He is at church today,” Sumiko explained. “He will return later.”
“I’ll go see him.” After lunch, I left the others watching TV and walked the two miles to the church. The afternoon air was soft, not cool enough for a jacket.
I arrived and immediately saw Taro’s silhouette on a bench