How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [9]
Mike slammed his door shut, chasing the cat. I leaned against the wall. He caught it in the living room and brought it back, cradled in his arms like a baby.
I crossed my arms. “You pay Daddy first month rent?”
Mike shrugged, pushing back his long hair with one hand. He went in his room and returned with a hundred-dollar bill, handing it to me without a word.
“How work going?” Mike had begun a new job at a pet store.
He shrugged again, and his eyes flicked back toward his closed door like he was missing his favorite show. “Fine.”
“Maybe you go back school, be a vet? You like that. Never too late.” I would go back to school, if I could. Grossmont Community College was only a mile away.
“Maybe. Yeah.”
I knew he only said that to make me shut up. “No more smoke room. Outside only.”
“Fine.” He was barely listening, his head cocked toward the television dialogue.
I wanted to tell him more: that he needed to clean the filthy bathroom he used; that he should rinse out his dishes; that he should keep his room neat. It was no use. If he cleaned the bathroom, first I’d have to nag, and then he’d do a halfway bad job at it, so I would have to redo it anyway. It was easier for me or Charlie to do, even with our ailments.
“You have dinner with us?” I asked him.
He shrugged.
“What mean? Say yes, say no. No shrug.”
“No, then.” He shuffled his feet.
“Got work?”
“Yeah.” The cat in his arms purred. He put his nose to its nose.
“You not watch so much TV. Make brain Jell-O. Read book.” I scratched the cat’s neck. It licked my hand, sandpapery wet.
“Okay.” Mike opened his door and disappeared inside.
I wondered if we should keep letting him move back in. After all, he was fifty. But he still hadn’t married. And who would ever marry him?
I raised him like my mother had raised my brother. By doing everything for him. I knew no better. I had hoped he would still grow up to be a hard worker. Japanese boys turn out fine raised like this, but apparently not Americans. Or not my son.
When Mike was a toddler and we lived in Virginia, I’d take him to the park and try to meet other children for playmates. For both of us.
Children that young—Mike was a year and a half—didn’t care what a child looked like. Their mothers did. “He doesn’t look the least bit American,” one mother remarked to me as our sons dug sand near each other. “He really takes after you.”
The mothers varied from polite to downright cold. I couldn’t blame them. Some had lost their fathers in the war with Japan. But I felt they could afford to be a little forgiving, seeing as how we lost in the end. Especially the manner in which we lost.
Time did not make our way smoother. When Mike was twelve and playing Little League in Oakland, all the mothers had to make treats for their end-of-season party. Mike had told me about it as I sat on the bleachers watching the game, by myself, on the top row. “It’s tomorrow,” he said, throwing the ball into his mitt and not looking at me.
The other mothers sat a few rows down or clumped in groups of two or three. They wore button-down shirts in pastel colors and capri pants, like a secret uniform. “Why they no tell me?” I asked.
He shrugged and asked for snack money. I gave him a quarter and moved two benches down to Jackie, the team mother. Jackie had dark hair and a flip just like Jackie O, whom she resembled. She wore a giant floppy straw hat.
Jackie smiled politely and I back at her. “Hi, Shoko, how are you?”
“Very well, thank you.” I used my softest, most pleasant voice. “Jackie. I bring popacor-nu barus to party.”
“What’s that?” Jackie said, not moving her lips from the smile.
“Popacor-nu barus.”
She blinked. “I’m sorry. One more time?”
“Popacor-nu. Barus.” I made the shape with my hands.
Jackie was silent, her head cocked to the side, the smile fading. The other mothers watched. Did they not understand, either?
Mike had come back and was standing in the dirt by the bleachers, watching. “It’s popcorn balls!” he shouted. “What the hell is so hard to understand? You people are stupid.