Flying the Dragon (4 page)

First Uncle belonged to neither group—maybe that was why he stood out. He kept shifting from one foot to the other, crossing his arms one second, then putting his hands in his pockets the next.

Mother placed her hand on Hiroshi’s shoulder. “There he is,” she said, leaning down to whisper. “Your father’s brother.”

First Uncle hadn’t spotted them yet, which gave Hiroshi more time to study him as they made their way across the scuffed floor. First Uncle and Father were fraternal twins, so Hiroshi knew they wouldn’t look exactly alike. But how could two brothers look so different? Father was tall and lanky. First Uncle was at least a hand shorter, and stocky.

Hiroshi slowed. What should he say to First Uncle? What would First Uncle say to him?

But when First Uncle spotted them, he didn’t seem to notice Hiroshi at all. He was looking at Grandfather, like he was trying to figure out who he was. Maybe after twelve years, he’d forgotten what Grandfather looked like.

Father greeted First Uncle with a bow. “Brother. You are looking well.” He sounded formal, like he was talking to one of Hiroshi’s teachers.

“As are you, Brother.” First Uncle matched Father’s bow. “
Irrasshai.
Welcome to America.”

They sure weren’t acting like brothers—more like strangers. Nothing like the easy, friendly way Father acted around his other brothers.

First Uncle’s nervous smile melted into a real one as he greeted Mother. Whatever family argument there’d been all those years ago must not have involved her.

First Uncle’s smile faded as he turned to Grandfather. First Uncle bowed deeply, holding the bow until Grandfather touched his shoulder. When First Uncle straightened, he looked sad. Sad—and sorry for something. But what?

The sounds of the crowd seemed to pause as Hiroshi waited for Grandfather to speak. Grandfather opened his mouth, closed it again, and breathed in. And then he spoke: “I have allowed a misunderstanding to come between us. It is time we let it go.”

With those words, First Uncle’s real smile returned.

The airport sounds came flooding back, and Hiroshi shared his own real smile with Father.

“You must be Hiroshi, of course.” First Uncle started to bow, and Hiroshi rushed to complete his bow first.

“It is an honor to meet you, First Uncle.” First Uncle laughed, and Hiroshi couldn’t help thinking how American he looked—that laugh exposed all his teeth, clear back to the molars.

“You look exactly like your father did at your age, Hiro-chan. And you sound just like him, too.” Hiroshi didn’t know if that was supposed to be a compliment or not, but he thanked First Uncle, just in case.

“Are we all ready?” First Uncle asked. “Cathy and Sorano are looking forward to meeting you.”

Cathy? Trying to pronounce that one would take some practice. Luckily Hiroshi could just call her
Aunt.
He had practiced saying it in English and hoped she would be pleased. At least Sorano had a Japanese name.

Leaving the airport, the first thing Hiroshi noticed was the sky—scattered shreds of soggy, gray winter clouds mixed with patches of blue. Hiroshi trailed his suitcase behind him, wheeling it over the curb. The wind gusted, giving Hiroshi a push, and then scurried away. It was as if this American wind were introducing itself, showing off its strength.

“Good kite-flying wind, Hiroshi.” Grandfather placed his hand on Hiroshi’s shoulder. Father, Mother, and First Uncle walked ahead, lost in conversation.

Hiroshi nodded. “I guess.” He thought of the box wrapped in brown paper he and Grandfather had packed with care back in Japan. Inside that box, the dragon kite slumbered.
Where is the box now? Has it already arrived in America, ahead of us? What will happen when the dragon wakes? Will it know its way around an American sky?

They arrived at First Uncle’s car. No—it was bigger than a car. It was more like a van, but wider and longer than minivans in Japan. Hiroshi figured First Uncle must have a lot of money—not only to have a car this size, but also to afford a place to park it.

Hiroshi helped Father and First Uncle with the suitcases. Grandfather went to lift a suitcase into the back, but Mother rested her hand on his arm.

“It has been a long trip. You will do me a favor if you wait here with me.” Mother always knew how to turn things around so that helping Grandfather made it seem like he was really helping her.

First Uncle held open the driver’s door for Grandfather. “Father, please. This seat is for you.”

Grandfather frowned and crossed his hands in an X, tapping one hand against the other twice. “It would be best if you would drive, Issei.”

First Uncle looked confused for a moment, then laughed. “Father, this is the passenger side.”

Hiroshi peered in the window and saw that the steering wheel was on the wrong side of the car. But First Uncle’s car was a Ford—an American car, so it made sense. A glance at the other cars in the parking lot told Hiroshi that the other cars were all the same—even the Japanese cars had the steering wheel on the left.

As First Uncle pulled out of the parking lot, Grandfather turned to Hiroshi and raised his arms. “Look—no hands!” Hiroshi laughed; it
did
seem like Grandfather was in the driver’s seat without a steering wheel.

First Uncle pulled through a booth and handed a ticket to a lady sitting behind a window. She said something to First Uncle, and a sign in the window flashed $4.50. Was that a lot of money? Four and a half yen was close to nothing, but he knew American dollars were different. First Uncle said something in English to the lady, and they pulled away.

Grandfather looked at First Uncle with a mixture of pride and confusion. “So that is English?” First Uncle nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. “Then you are a good English speaker,” Grandfather said, like this was an undisputable fact.

First Uncle laughed. “I still make mistakes, after all these years.”

Mother nudged Hiroshi. “You will learn English just like First Uncle. You will study hard.” The hum of the motor was enough to lull Hiroshi to sleep, and he fought to keep his eyes open. Learning English was the last thing he wanted to think about.

“How far away are the monuments? And the White House?” Grandfather asked, looking out the window.

“We are actually far from the city, Father—about thirty miles.”

Hiroshi tried to remember how to convert miles to kilometers, but the numbers were jumbled in his head. “So why is the airport called Dulles? Is that a town?”

Grandfather looked back and nodded—he must have thought it was a good question, too.

First Uncle looked perplexed. “You know, Hiro-chan, I’m not sure. I think it may be named after someone, but I’m not sure who.” Hiroshi didn’t dare look at his parents. He had just asked a question that First Uncle didn’t know the answer to. Hiroshi hadn’t meant to be disrespectful. But First Uncle laughed. “We’ll have to Google that one when we get home.”

Google? Apparently, America did have some Japanese things.

Hiroshi must have nodded off, because Father had to nudge him awake as they pulled into First Uncle’s neighborhood. Hiroshi blinked. How long had he been asleep? He looked at the houses parading outside his window. They looked just like the American houses in the movies, three or four styles that repeated like a pattern. Each was surrounded by its own park—grass, flowers, bushes, and trees.

The adults had all fallen quiet. Hiroshi was sure Grandfather and his parents were as tired as he was. First Uncle looked like he was concentrating. On what, Hiroshi wasn’t sure.

They pulled into the driveway of a brick house. The park in front looked even fancier than the other houses’ parks—a stone path led to the front door, and bushes no higher than Hiroshi’s ankles lined the path. It was too early for flowers, but Hiroshi recognized the cherry tree that would bloom in the next month or two. In fact, every plant looked as if it had come from the garden outside Grandfather’s workshop in Japan.

When Grandfather got out of the car, he stopped and stared. Hiroshi stood next to him, remembering their garden and wondering who would water it when the spring sun came. Grandfather’s eyes seemed full of remembering, too.

The front door swung open, and the spell was broken. A woman wearing a nervous smile stepped out. She looked like she didn’t know what to do with her hands—folding her hands one second, brushing her straw-colored hair back the next. She finally bent somewhere between a nod and a bow, like she couldn’t decide which one to do.

“Hello.
Irrasshaimase.
“

The Japanese word for “welcome” sounded out of place coming from this American face. First Uncle skipped up the step and stood next to her.

Grandfather bowed and said that it was nice to meet Aunt Cathy. Hiroshi wondered if she’d understood him, but she bowed anyway and said she was happy to meet him, too, in careful Japanese.

“Hello.” Father stepped forward, bowed, then held out his hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Tsuki.” It was strange to hear English come from Father’s lips and see him shake hands like an American.

Aunt Cathy seemed relieved. She shook Father’s hand like she didn’t want to let go. “Please, call me Cathy.”

Mother was next. She had been practicing English for the last month and looked like she was about to take an exam. She made it through, “It is nice to meet you.” Then she looked back at Hiroshi, beckoning him to the front.

Hiroshi knew Americans didn’t bow, so he offered his hand, as Father had done. “It is nice to meet you, Aunt.”

Aunt Cathy smiled and said in rehearsed-sounding Japanese: “Please. It would be an honor if you would call me
Oba-chan.
“

Hiroshi was surprised that she preferred the Japanese word for aunt, but he smiled back. “Yes,
Oba-chan.
Okay.”

She led them into the house and said something about Sorano, her daughter. First Uncle translated: “Sorano will be down in a moment. She arrived from soccer practice not long ago, and she is upstairs changing.”

Hiroshi helped First Uncle and Father with the suitcases, which they left at the bottom of the stairs.

“Come,” First Uncle said. “Please have something to eat, and then I will show you to your rooms. You must be tired.” Hiroshi wasn’t even sure what time it was supposed to be. It had to be afternoon, but he felt like he could lie down and sleep all the way through to the next day.

As Aunt Cathy headed toward the kitchen, Mother whispered, “Hiroshi, go and get the gifts from my red carry-on bag. They are in the main compartment.” Hiroshi headed back to the pile of luggage near the stairs. He rummaged around in Mother’s bag, found the gifts, then stood. He turned and crashed right into something hard. The gifts went flying, and Hiroshi staggered back, falling onto a suitcase. When he recovered, a girl stood over him, face red, hand extended.

“Sorry,” she said. “Are you okay?”

So this was his American cousin.

How was Skye supposed to know that Hiroshi would whirl around just as she was jumping down the last step to say hello?

“
Gomen nasai,
” she managed, thankful she had remembered how to say “I’m sorry” in Japanese. She offered her hand to help him up, but he scrambled to his feet on his own. They bent to retrieve the scattered gifts at the same time and almost bumped heads.

“
Gomen nasai,
” they said in unison.

Skye laughed. She couldn’t help it. Luckily, Hiroshi laughed, too.

“You are Sorano?”

So he speaks English!
Now she wouldn’t have to worry about coming up with the right words in Japanese.

“Yes, my name is Sorano, but all my friends call me Skye. I mean, you’re my cousin, so I guess you can call me Sorano. But I like Skye better.”

Hiroshi stared at her, eyebrows raised.

Uh-oh.
Calling herself Skye had probably confused him. Or maybe she’d been talking too fast.

“Sorano?” He looked unsure.

Skye shrugged. “Either one. Sorano, Skye.” He nodded, but she could tell he was still confused. “Um, Sorano is fine.” They gathered the gifts, and Skye shook a few, praying she wouldn’t hear the rattle of broken glass. So far, so good. “I’ll help you carry these, okay?”

He held out his free hand. “
Arigato gozaimasu.
I can take them in,” he continued in Japanese. “I think my mother wants to present them to you and your parents.”

“Oh! Of course.” Skye handed over the gifts.

When they entered the kitchen, the adults stopped talking and turned. Her dad came forward and put his arm around her. “I see you’ve met your cousin.” He spoke in Japanese.

Skye nodded. “
Hai.
” Her dad waited, like she was supposed to say more than just “yes.” Her aunt, uncle, and grandfather waited, smiling, like they expected her to break into song—maybe the Japanese national anthem, whatever that was.

Her dad spoke to her in English out of the side of his mouth: “Don’t forget what we practiced.”

How could she forget? She’d memorized all the right things to say, and she’d even practiced bowing. Hands at her sides. Bend at the waist. Bow lower than the adults. Bow lowest for the grandfather. Good grief, it’d been like living in bowing boot camp for the last month.