How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [85]
WE TOOK THE TRAIN to Kumamoto City to see the sights. Kumamoto Castle was tall and impressive, looking like three houses, each one smaller than the one below, stacked on top of each other, a Japanese wedding cake. Taro told us it was a reconstruction. “The wooden outbuildings are original,” he said.
At its top was a lookout tower, with views to the city and the countryside beyond. “Mom talked about this castle, too,” I remarked to no one, leaning against concrete made to look like heavy stones. “Most strong castle in all Japan,” she would say, as if she had built it herself, showing me photos she’d taken years ago. “No one can break.”
Beside me, Helena broke into a grin. “Look who’s here!” She danced forward to someone coming up the stairs.
Yasuo. He looked chagrined as Helena pulled him forward. “I called him from the train,” she said proudly. “It’s his day off. Isn’t this great?”
Taro glanced at him, then strode away to look at another part of the exhibit without a word.
I wanted to chastise her, but restrained myself here in public. Later I would. “Yasuo.” I hugged him.
Yasuo sighed. “Helena-chan, I wish you would have given me warning.”
“Then it wouldn’t have worked at all.” Helena took Yasuo’s hand. “The view’s incredible from up here!”
Taro was reading a photo display of the castle’s history. I tapped his shoulder. “I bet you know all of that by heart now.”
He grunted. “Go on. I will see you at Sumiko’s house.”
“No, don’t do that.” I got into his line of vision. “I’m not saying you have to completely accept Yasuo, but couldn’t you tolerate him for a few hours? For Helena’s sake?”
Taro glowered. “Two hours, no more.”
“And lunch.” I smiled, my heart skipping. “Don’t forget lunch.”
“I must be in a dream world to accept this,” Taro grumbled. He held out his arm to me.
Yasuo sat on a bench with Helena. He stood, looking worriedly at our faces. “Uncle.” He bowed.
Taro hesitated.
Helena got between them, her arms spread apart as though she were stopping a fight. “If you’re going to be mad, be mad at me.”
Finally, stiffly, Taro bowed back. “I think they would like to see Suizenji Jojuen Park, don’t you?”
Yasuo straightened. “Yes. That is my favorite place in the city. It was built by a feudal lord, Hosokawa Tsunatoshi, on the site of Suizenji Temple. It was made to look like Edo, the route from Kyoto to Tokyo, with a miniature waterway and mountains.”
“Most impressive.” Taro headed for the stairs. “The original temple was built by Hosokawa Tsunatoshi in 1632.”
LATE IN THE EVENING, we returned to Sumiko’s house. Yasuo had walked us all over Kumamoto City. After the gardens, he took us to the art museum, where he bought Helena a black hardbound sketchbook and pens in the gift shop. “So you can practice,” he told her.
“She doesn’t need practice. She’s natural,” Taro corrected him.
“Right. How do you know?” Helena rolled her eyes. “You’ve never seen me draw.”
“I see you doodle all the time, even when you do not realize it,” Taro told her. “Everyone in our family is an artist. You are no different.”
“Even my mother?” Helena looked at me.
“Not for years.” I smiled ruefully. “Thank you, Yasuo.”
Yasuo bowed, then picked up another sketchbook and put it on the counter to pay. “For you, Cousin.”
“No, I couldn’t,” I protested.
“I insist. To stretch your creative spirit, too.” Yasuo presented me with the sketchbook. “To remember our day out.”
I hesitated again. Taro tsked. “It’s most impolite not to accept a gift,” he scolded.
I took it and bowed, feeling awkward. “Thank you.”
THIS SIDE TRIP had been more exhausting than the flight from America. I stretched out on my futon. Helena lay next to me, sketching away. “This is my sketchbook of Japan,” she said. “I’m writing down everything we did and trying to draw pictures, but they look weird.”
“Try drawing from life first,” I suggested, turning on my side. “It’s usually easier.”
I closed my eyes. Mom’s image danced across my eyelids. I wanted to tell her everything that we had