How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [95]
I spoke first. “I do what I think best.” I spoke slowly. “I sorry, Mike.”
He cleared his throat once, then again. “It explains a lot.”
I wanted to ask what Charlie had said to him, but decided not to. That would be between him and Mike, not for me to know. All that mattered was Mike’s being there. I touched his hand with mine, tubes trailing, my voice rising. “I no want hurt you, Mike.”
“I know, Mom.” He smiled briefly, and his eyes met mine. Ronin all over again. “But I don’t want to keep talking about it, all right?”
It sounded like something Charlie would say. Mike and my husband were similar in so many ways. And both were more like the Japanese than they knew. A Japanese person was happy to not analyze every problem to death. Sometimes letting go brought more peace than holding on, I realized, though it was harder to do. I pulled the sheets up to my neck and smiled. “Okay.”
Mike had not broken, as I had feared. And my secret, uselessly burdening me for so many years, floated away.
A cheer went up from the baseball crowd. I cheered, too, not caring what we were yelling for. It just felt good.
I remembered something else. “I need new suitcase,” I said aloud. “We better go store after this.” I watched the Cubs pitcher strike out the home team. “Yes!” I stood up and waved my Cubs hat around.
Charlie sighed, holding out his hand to steady me. “There’s plenty of time.”
I realized he was right. I smiled. “I hungry,” I said. “How ’bout hot dog?”
Charlie waved to the vendor with the big box strapped to his front, holding up one finger.
“Five bucks,” the vendor said.
Five dollars! Robbery. “That okay. I not that hungry.”
Charlie took out his wallet. “How often do we come here?”
I smiled. “Probably only time. But still takai.”
Charlie handed me the hot dog. “There you go.”
I took a bite. Watching baseball while eating a hot dog. Now I felt like an American.
Our picture flashed on the JumboTron screen. “Charlie!” I shouted. “Look, there we are!”
We waved frantically, until they went to someone else.
“Wait until Sue hear ’bout this. Maybe we be on the news, too.” I polished off the meal, licking mustard off my fingertips.
“Don’t bet on it, Shoko-chan.”
A breeze blew up and I put on my jacket. Charlie put his arm around me.
I checked the scoreboard: Padres 1, Cubs 2. “Look that! We beat you good, Charlie.”
Charlie shrugged. “Like you said, it’s early in the game. Let’s see what happens.”
“Fine.” I relaxed against him. “Time for another hot dog. Maybe I have beer, too.” I was joking, but Charlie looked horrified. I laughed.
Author’s Note
My mother, Suiko O’Brien, always told me her life would make a great book.
As I was growing up, she regaled me with stories of what had happened to her during her youth in World War II-era Japan. At last, when I was in college and her health had left her bedridden, I asked her to do one last thing for me: record her stories on tape. She obliged, giving me a rambling account of her life.
Several of these stories are incorporated into this novel, including those about how she got shot at by American pilots, how her father picked her new husband from among photographs, and how her extreme beauty caused men to lose their minds over her. I made up all the other stories.
The language Shoko uses in the book was particularly challenging for me. When I studied Japanese, I discovered that some of the words my mother had used when I was growing up were her own personal usages and not grammatically correct Japanese. Since I wanted to preserve the flavor of her speech, I decided to use the same words my mother would have used. Some Japanese speakers might find errors in some of the word choices or spellings, but it’s true to how my mother spoke, and how I imagined Shoko speaking. My mother died of an enlarged heart when I was twenty. She was only sixty-one. We never knew what caused the enlarged heart; her doctors speculated