How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [83]
He did not look up, but shifted over to make room for me. “Suiko.” He swallowed hard enough for me to hear it. “I am too old to keep up these pretenses. Too old and far too tired.
“I have been thinking about what my parents would wish. I have been praying to hear what they would say.”
He shut his eyes. “My sister,” he whispered, patting his chest, “no matter what, she is still here.” With a soft crinkling, he took the letter out of his shirt pocket and unfolded the tissue-thin stationery. I watched him read, waiting, hoping he would translate it aloud. Nothing. He inhaled noisily, as though the gentle air itself pained him.
“Wait here,” he said. Without meeting my eyes, he got up and went into the church. I sat, looking at the birds singing above, making futile attempts at identification. The only ones I knew were the delicate sparrows.
Mom loved birds. She fed them the leftover rice from the pot, soaking it off and pouring it into the yard, sprinkling bread around every day. Until one died of harassment from the family cat, she would keep a canary in a cage, so tame that it would fly out and return every evening.
“Suiko.” Taro had a package wrapped in plain white cloth, knotted together at the top. “This, you give to Shoko.” He put it on the bench next to me and undid the knot. Inside was a white shirt box, which he opened to reveal white material. He unfolded this to reveal a white kimono, pulling it aloft. White cranes danced across the material, barely discernible. “These are what Japanese dead wear.”
I felt the blood drain from my head. Suddenly I was aware of the pressure of the wooden slats of the bench on my thighs, the scratchy tag on my shirt, Taro’s crisscrossed crow’s-feet embedded in his skin. “But why does she need that?”
I knew why before he spoke. Of course I did.
He tried to use a reassuring tone. “Your mother wants this”—he touched the package—“because someday she will need it. Everyone does, someday. It is blessed by her church.”
I stared at the package blankly. But she had asked for this. She thought she was not going to make it through the operation. She expected not to survive.
Taro rewrapped the kimono.
My eyes filled. “She’s not going to die.” I sounded like a little girl, even to myself.
Taro sat and gripped my shaking hand. “Ah, Suiko. I was tough. Too tough on Shoko.” He cleared his throat. “When Suki-chan passed, it was too hard. My wife before her. All of us dying, dying. Ever since the war, we’ve been dying.” He folded his other hand on top of mine, staring hard into the pond. “She told you that I hated Americans.”
I nodded.
“That is all?”
“Yes.” I took my hand back and wiped at my eyes. “Is there more?”
“If there is, it is not my story to tell.” Taro stood and offered me his hand. “Come, Suiko-chan.” He helped me up. “I would like to know all about your mother. What has she been up to these past decades?” He laughed and offered me his arm.
“Can you tell me why she likes baseball so much?” I looped my arm through his.
He lit up. “Oh, Shoko and her baseball. You know she was the best player for miles around. Could hit it farther and run faster than any of us boys. I was jealous.” We took a loop around the koi pond, then headed home, walking unhurriedly.
THE NEXT DAY, we decided to go see Nagasaki. I had been thinking about it ever since Yasuo mentioned it. Since before that. I had been thinking about Nagasaki my entire life.
In American history classes, the teacher invariably wanted us to debate the effectiveness of the bomb. I always felt torn. Which side should I agree with? “If Americans no do bombs, the Emperor never stop,” my mother had told me when I was in high school.
“But it was horrific,” I said to her.
She shrugged. “Yes. War is hell, they say.”
“Japan was about to pull out at the end,” I argued. “It was unnecessary.”
My mother looked at me sternly. “Mommy American now, Sue. I got agree with America. Understand? Nobody gonna call