How to Be an American Housewife (26 page)

Sumiko bumped the car down the country road. I gripped Helena’s seat. Sumiko could have been a New York cabbie.

A mile or two later, she ground to a halt in front of a wood-framed house. Behind it stretched a square acre of land planted with a large vegetable garden and fruit trees.

“Ojı̄chan!” Sumiko called as we entered the home. I took off my shoes. “Ojı̄chan! Visitors!” She spoke the word in English. “Welcome, welcome, have a seat.” Sumiko pushed indoor slippers toward us to use on the hardwood floors.

The inside of the house consisted of one very large room, separated into smaller rooms by sliding
shoji
-screen panels—rice paper and wooden lattice in a honey color. The main room had a low dining table set on a mat, with red cushions set around it. Light came through a screen printed with the silhouette of a bonsai tree. Two round white paper lanterns hung down over the table. In the corner, there was a flat-screen TV. One wall had a large
tansu
unit of dark wood—cubes and drawers for storage and display that stair-stepped toward the ceiling.

Through an open screen, I saw a small room whose floor was covered in tatami mats, and a big window looking to the garden, providing most of the light in here, as well.

“Why the English, Sumiko-chan?
Gaijin imasu ka?
” a jovial voice said from another room that I couldn’t see.

“Foreigners, he’s asking,” I whispered.

“I knew that from the first five minutes we were here, Mother.” Helena smiled and sat on a red cushion.

“Iie,”
Sumiko responded in the negative. She glanced to us, at a loss for what to call us, then flashed a quick, reassuring smile.

A chubby-cheeked boy wearing Spider-Man underwear whipped open the
shoji
screen and ran screaming into the room.
“Okāsan! Okāsan!”
he screeched, leaping into her arms.

“Taro-chan!” A man in his late sixties rushed after him, holding a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. He stopped at the sight of us.

We took each other in for a moment. His gray hair was thick on his head, and his eyes were deep brown and nearly disappeared under his bushy black eyebrows. His cotton kimono was dark navy, with a white
kanji
symbol repeated all over.

He bowed, covering up his surprise and turning to Sumiko, then back to us.
“Hajimemashite. Amerika no kata deshō ka?”

“He-llo,” I stammered, forgetting my Japanese altogether. Helena clasped her hands together and, instead of bowing, dipped into a low, dramatic curtsy.

“Hello,” Taro said in English.
“Nihongo ga dekinai,”
he said to his granddaughter scornfully. They don’t speak Japanese.

“Sukoshi
,
”
I said. A little.

Never before had I seen one of my mother’s immediate relatives in person. I couldn’t stop staring at his face, which looked a bit like my mother, and a lot like the photos of my long-dead grandfather. He was more stoutly built than my grandfather had appeared, his chest a barrel and his legs thick, his feet flat and wide. Peasant stock from my grandmother, my mother would say. Hard to push over.

“I will speak English, then,” Taro said. “Sumiko, these are your friends?”

“Yes. No.” Sumiko pulled Taro-chan’s shirt over his head. “It’s a very strange occurrence, Ojı̄chan. These are your nieces.”

Taro’s brow furrowed.

“Shoko’s daughters.”

“This is my daughter, Helena,” I corrected Sumiko. “I am Shoko’s daughter.” I bowed now. It seemed the right thing to do.

He glowered. “Why do you come here? Money?”

I felt heat rising from my neck. Yasuo had warned us.

“Why would we come all the way to Japan for money?” Helena crossed her arms. “Do you know how expensive plane tickets are?”

Taro’s eyes flickered with amusement. “Ah, true. You are here for another reason.”

I collected myself. “May we sit down and talk?”

Taro did not hesitate. “Tell me so I can decide whether to have you here or not.”

“Aren’t you the least bit glad to see us, Uncle?” Helena spread her arms out dejectedly.

Sumiko put one arm around her. “Ojı̄chan, they came to reunite. It is wonderful.”

Taro grunted. It reminded me of Mike.

Everyone was a stranger to me. The family I had grown up with. The family I had just found. I knew them, yet they were no closer to me than a casual acquaintance. Only Helena was mine, and even she became, by turns, a stranger as she neared her teens. My lip trembled and I made it stop. “Shoko’s sick, Uncle.”

Momentary concern passed over Taro’s face before he controlled it. “Caught some American disease, eh? I am not surprised.”

Sumiko covered her mouth with her tiny hand. “Ojı̄chan!” she said. “Sit down, Cousins, please. Let us have tea.”

“No!” he said. “I will not have these traitors in my home.” He ranted in Japanese until even little Taro was agog.

Helena was near tears. I drew myself up and looked him square in the face. What I saw there was not anger, but fear and exhaustion. He knew this was silly. He knew, but his pride wouldn’t let him admit it.

I bowed. “Of course we will leave if you wish, Uncle. But my mother wanted us to give you a message. It’s in my bag. Would you like it?”

He bowed back. “Do as you wish. I must be leaving.” He glanced at Sumiko.

“This is my house, my husband’s house,” Sumiko said. “They stay.”

“I will see you at a later time, it seems,” Taro said stiffly. He put Tarochan’s clothes down on the mat, put on his shoes, and left.

“He’s going to the church.” Sumiko dressed her son. “I am sorry for his outburst. I knew he had difficulties with your mother, but I did not know he would act so.” She bowed. “Forgive me.”

Helena lay on her stomach and rolled a red race car toward Taro-chan. “It’s not your fault.”

“One can be sorry without it being one’s fault.” Sumiko gestured to me. “Please, sit. I will bring out food.” She went into the other room.

“Mom, what is going on?” Helena asked. “How can he just throw us away after we came all this way to see him?”

“He was surprised. Maybe he needs time to recover.” I wanted to believe this.

Sumiko returned with a tray of sliced persimmons, coffee, and cakes. “This is all we have,” she said, handing us hot, moist towels. “I apologize again for my grandfather. Even though he is priest and Konkokyo says that all mankind gets along, he is still like that.” She picked up the persimmon. “It’s from being principal. He had to be strict with the students.” Taro would have been at home in South Central. “Where do you stay now?”

I brought up my shoulders. “Where’s the nearest hotel?”

Sumiko clasped my hand. “I would like you to stay here. You are welcome. My husband is a fisherman, out to sea most times. Ojı̄chan lives with us. His wife died a couple years ago.”

I bit into a persimmon. It tasted like a juicy date. “He won’t like it, Sumiko.”

“This is my house, not his.” She stood. “You are my family, too.”

I smiled at her. Only once had anyone from Dad’s family come out to see us from the East Coast—my grandma Millie, when I was about ten years old. Mom had spent two weeks getting ready for her visit. She fixed up a mattress on the floor of the spare room for me, giving Grandma my bed. “More comfortable,” she had said.

Then, after Grandma arrived, Mom wouldn’t let her do anything. Mom made elaborate meals and catered to every small need Grandma might have. “Let me do the dishes, Shoko,” Grandma would offer every night, looking concerned at the amount of energy my mother was displaying. Grandma Millie was in her sixties, gray-haired, and had commenced living a nomadic life in which she spent a couple of months with each of her children on the East Coast. Not us—we lived too far away, she said. She had Dad’s same blue eyes. I thought she was fascinating because she removed her teeth every night.

“You guest. No help,” Mom said, even as the strain made her lie down for longer periods.

“I’m family, Shoko. Family helps out.” Millie would watch her anxiously, then whisper to me, “Help your mama out, Sue. I can’t stand watching her do that.”

I watched Sumiko start clearing away the remnants of our snack and stood to help. “Sit, sit, you guest.” She brushed me aside.

“Tomorrow I’m family, and I help. Okay?”

She looked taken aback. “If you would like.”

 

 

WE SPENT THE REST of the afternoon and early evening looking at the family we didn’t know we had: pictures of Taro’s two sons and daughter getting married; the birth of Sumiko; Taro celebrating anniversaries with his late wife, Keiko; photos of Taro as school principal; and all the other milestones families always have pictures of. Sumiko had her own photos in neat albums; Taro’s were stuffed into three shoe boxes.

Taro looked entirely unlike the man we saw earlier: in these he was smiling, his arms always hugging those around him. There were a few of their grandparents and some of Suki and her husband and her children.

“Where are Taro’s children?” I picked up a photo of Taro holding a baby, many years ago.

“My parents live in Kumamoto City. My aunt went to Tokyo to be a singer—a jazz singer.”

“Really?” Helena was trying to put Taro’s photos into chronological order. “Can we go see her?”

“You can hear her.” Sumiko went to the
tansu
and put a CD into the player. “God Bless the Child” came on, sung by a sweet, high, thin voice, backed by a piano.

“Wow.” Helena’s eyes widened. “Mom, you never told me we’re related to a professional singer.”

“I didn’t know myself.” I smiled. “What I don’t know about this family, Helena, could fill two books.”

“And my brother is a judo champion,” Sumiko added, returning to us and flipping an album to a photo of a diminutive, yet very solid, man on an Olympic podium, gold medal around his neck.

“We’re related to a celebrity!” Helena shrieked. “That is so cool.”

Taro-chan, lying on the floor and watching cartoons, stirred. Sumiko kissed Taro-chan on the cheek. “He is tired.”

Would Sumiko and the rest of the family be as pleased to see pictures of us? Did they ever think about Mike and me, and my mother and Helena, out in America? Or were we gladly forgotten?

Mom had rarely spoken of Taro. From his actions, I guessed that Taro had spoken of her even more rarely. Maybe talking about it hurt too much. Maybe he simply didn’t care any longer.

We had no singers or athletes in our little section of family in San Diego, or even on the East Coast, as far as I knew. Perhaps our Japanese relatives would be ashamed of our mediocrity, of my parents’ falling-down house and my own ramshackle one. Or maybe they would want to visit, just because we were not too far from Disneyland.

Helena yawned, and I did, too. More had happened in the past day than it had for the last half-decade of my life.

“Mom?” Helena stretched out beside Taro-chan. “I’m having a great time. Thanks.”

I smiled at her. “You’re welcome.”

It was seven now. Taro had not returned. Possibly he would not for as long as we stayed. The letter sat in my bag. I could leave it for him, but Mom wanted a reply. I did, too.

Sumiko smiled. “Bed?” She pointed toward the tatami room. “I will unroll your futons.”

I
awoke to a sharp pain in my back. Taro-chan’s small foot was planted in my spine, his mouth open and drooling. Helena was on my other side. Sumiko slept on another futon across the room. Light filtered in brightly through the sheer blinds. The room was bare except for some shelves on the walls. Uncluttered. How different from my bedroom in San Diego, with old overflowing dressers and light-blocking dusty drapes.

From the other side of the
shoji
, I smelled breakfast. Eggs. I got up to use the bathroom, then went into the living area.

Taro sat at the table, reading a newspaper and drinking tea. He gave the barest nod, terrifying me. I couldn’t help thinking he had a weapon stashed in his kimono, even if his only weapon was an insult.

“Sorry,” I muttered, ready to return to the sleeping room.

“Sit. Have some tea. If you prefer coffee,” he added, “I’m afraid you will have to wait for Sumiko. She is the coffee drinker.”

“Your English is excellent.” Of course his English was good. He went to college, unlike my mother. An education for which she had largely paid.

His eyebrows went up. “Yes. I have studied it.”

“Why? Don’t you hate Americans?”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” he quoted, amused.