How to Be an American Housewife

by Margaret Dilloway

  Charlie blushed. Mother was shocked. “Taro! Be polite.”

  Taro pursed his lips, speaking to me in Japanese. “What makes you think he won’t dump you when you get to the States? That’s what happens. American servicemen can’t get used to being married to a Japanese woman.”

  “I’m getting out of here.” I leaned over to him. “Remember who got you out of this place. Me. Now it’s my turn.”

  He made a rude noise with his lips. “You are disgusting. You’ll do anything to get out of here, no matter how low.”

  “Taro!” my mother cried helplessly.

  “If you could understand my position for one moment, you would know how hard this is,” I said, squeezing my hand into a fist. I was glad that Charlie couldn’t understand my brother. I hoped Taro wouldn’t punch him. I would hit Taro first.

  Charlie was nervous. “Have I done something to offend?” he said in Japanese.

  I looked at Charlie helplessly, not knowing how to say, “It’s not your fault.” It wasn’t Charlie’s fault that while he was being trained to call us yellow-skinned monsters, we had been trained to call them fiends. I didn’t have the English words for the bombing raids or the lack of food or the atomic bombs. To explain that some Japanese would submit in practice to being conquered, but not in spirit, no matter how much it only hurt themselves.

  Taro clapped his hands slowly. “Very good, cowboy,” he said in English.

  My father had quietly watched this exchange. “We lost the war, Taro. It is time for peace, to accept the hand of fate. Tokidoki.”

  Taro did not waver. He pointed at me. “You go to America and you are no longer my sister.” He muttered under his breath, “Pan pan.”

  I bowed my head down, my heart breaking. Pan pan was a horrible insult, worse than whore, what they called prostitutes who sold themselves to the enemy to make money. “If that is what you want.”

  He bent down by my head. “All I wanted was a simple sister, a sister to be proud of.”

  Taro straightened and turned to my husband, his expression implacable. Charlie’s forehead crinkled. “Good luck, Chuck.” He bowed to Charlie, then turned and left my parent’s house.

  At our wedding in my father’s church, Charlie and I wore traditional kimonos. As we were purified, as Charlie carefully read the Japanese words of commitment, as we drank our sake, I kept expecting Taro to walk in and take his place next to my mother. He had to. I was his sister.

  I never saw him again.

  It is important to support your husband’s work endeavors. In America, the Wife tends to complain if the husband spends many hours at work. The Japanese Wife should know this is only good and natural. The American Wife is too demanding. Be sure to guard against this tendency once you are assimilated.

  —from the chapter “A Map to Husbands,”

  How to Be an American Housewife

  Ten

  The day after my visit to Dr. Cunningham, I awoke with my heart pounding and the taste of tin in my mouth, the image of Taro still swirling in my head. I would not be able to go to Japan. No. It couldn’t be. I could not wait for another year, until after a surgery that might go bad. Until after I was dead. I got up and counted my secret money again, just to make sure it was all still there.

  I looked at myself in the mirror, at my wild hair sticking up, at the new wrinkles on my forehead that had formed overnight. No longer was this the face of my mother—she hadn’t lived this long. I thought about what I should do and who should do it. Someone to go in my stead. My stand-in.

  Sue. My daughter. She was my only choice. Mike could not do it. He gave up too easily; if Taro turned him away, Mike would shrug his shoulders and disappear into the backcountry of southern Japan. Sue would be the one who would not give up. I hoped all these years of toil and disappointment had not worn her down too much, yanked her spirit out as it had Charlie’s. No. She still had time. She would do this for me. I would pay. She couldn’t say no.

  My granddaughter Helena could do it alone, if only she weren’t so young. She was a bright girl, smart, outgoing. The kind of girl who wouldn’t be happy in the life that I had had. Or her mother’s.

  I took care of Helena often when she was young. Day care was tough on her; anyone could see that. She was left from six in the morning until almost six at night. Every time I saw her, even when she was two years old, she had bags under her eyes. I wished I could do more to help out.

  “You can’t take care of her. You don’t have the stamina to run after a toddler,” Sue told me over and over. I thought if I willed it, I could do it. “All she would do at your house is watch TV. At day care she plays with the other kids.”

  Sue would leave her here for short periods, though, and I would take her in the backyard, or on a little walk up the street. Her toddler pace, stopping at every crack and ladybug, suited me.

  Last week, Helena had come over while Sue went to the gym. She was looking more grown-up these days, beginning to get hips and breasts, and her skin was still unmarked by the acne that had plagued Sue.

  Helena surveyed my curio cabinet in the bedroom, which held my shrine and some Japanese dolls. “Aren’t there more dolls?” she asked, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “I remember Doll Day.”

  “Yes. Girls’ Day.” I smiled, pleased that she remembered. On March 3, I would have Helena come over and we would get out all my Japanese dolls. You were supposed to have the Emperor, the Empress, and all their retinue, but we made do with what I had: some wooden kokeshi dolls, simple wooden figures made on a lathe, with spherical heads on sticks poking into their bodies; and several porcelain dolls with delicate features and silk kimonos. I had them stored in the garage.

  “Can I see them?” Helena was always curious about Japan, always asking me for stories. For show-and-tell in third grade, she had brought me in to talk about kimonos.

  I got out the kokeshi dolls and set them up on the dining table. “These I got for your mommy and daddy,” I said, pulling out the matching couple. They had cartoonish big eyes, painted black hair, and red lips. Their bobble heads drifted away from each other. “See, they look away from each other.”

  “That means they don’t love each other, right?” She wasn’t upset. She blinked her eyes innocently.

  “Yeah, that right. But this only legend.” Some people said that the kokeshi held the spirits of the dead; maybe some long-ago religion had used them. I had bought mine from a tourist spot near a hot spring.

  I got out two more. These had kimonos made of a soft flocked material; Helena felt them with her index finger, as she always did. “These me and Ojisan.” I put them on the table next to the others. Their heads bobbled, wavered, then looked at each other.

  “You love each other!” Helena grinned. She twirled the head around on Craig’s doll. “Can I take these home?”

  I shrugged. “Your mommy no like them.”

  “They remind her of a bad time, I guess.” Helena spun the doll head faster. “But I want them.”

  “You try cause trouble, Helena-chan?” I smoothed her hair out of her face. “Why no wear hair back, see pretty face?”

  “I like it like this.” She shook her mane. “I am not causing trouble. I just want the dolls. Will you get me dolls when I get married?”

  “If get marry.” I smiled. “No get married until thirty year old, got it?”

  “I know, I know.” She rolled her eyes.

  I peered at her. “You wear eyeliner? Your mommy know?” Good girls didn’t wear eyeliner at twelve. What path was she headed down?

  She leaned to me. “Don’t tell her, okay?”

  My heart melted. “Okay. Our secret.” I smiled. “You want make cookie with me?”

  “Sure.” Helena put the kokeshi dolls by the front door to take home. I hoped Sue wouldn’t be angry.

  Helena was my do-over daughter. With her, I had the patience to do everything I should have done with Sue. Cook. Teach about Japan. Hugging. I would have even taught her the langu
age, if I hadn’t been certain I would mess it up. She needed to learn proper dialect, not what we used out in the country.

  Maybe Helena could go with Sue, if Sue would agree to go.

  I pulled on my clothes. I needed to go see Sue, tell her. My hands shook as I put on my makeup. Charlie could not know.

  Charlie pushed the door open. I jumped. “Hey, I thought I heard you up.” He sat down to put on his shoes. “I’m going to help Mike move the rest of his stuff.”

  “Good.” I smoothed the guilty look over on my face.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Store.” I brushed down my hair quickly. I knew he thought I meant the store that was a mile away.

  “Get some Maalox while you’re out, okay?” Charlie left.

  “Okey-dokey.” I put on blue eye shadow and my coral Revlon Moondrops lipstick that I’d had for the last ten years. I made makeup stretch. Then I added foundation—it was lighter than the skin on my neck, Sue said, but that’s how I liked it—and was ready to go on my secret mission.

  SUE’S OFFICE BUILDING was a long way away. Though I had my driver’s license, I didn’t do much driving on my own. Usually I avoided freeways, but I had to take three to get there. I kept to the slow lane the whole way.

  Her building was tall glass that reflected the clouds and sun. The company was so big, it took up all the office space. At the receptionist’s desk, I asked where Sue worked.

  “Second floor, New Accounts. You want me to call her?” the girl asked. She snapped her gum. Rude.

  Another young woman was already heading through the double doors. “I go with her, okay?” I walked in behind the woman before she could let the doors close.

  “It’s upstairs to the right,” the woman told me. Her clothes were so chic; her perfume smelled expensive. It made me wish that we could switch positions.

  I thanked her. My mind whirred with the stories I needed to tell my daughter, to get her to understand why I needed her. I should have called. Maybe she had a meeting; maybe this wasn’t a good time. How could I work Japan into a two-minute conversation? This needed hours, days maybe.

  I found my way to my daughter.

  SUE HUNCHED over her small desk, typing. I looked around. Fabric walls not as tall as I was stretched from here to the smoked-glass window. The only light came from dim green fluorescents. I shook my head. This had to be the wrong place. My daughter was a manager. Managers had offices overlooking the ocean, didn’t they? And secretaries doing all their work for them.

  “Suiko-chan?”

  “Mom? What on earth are you doing here?” Her tone was incredulous and, I thought, annoyed.

  As usual, my daughter had blue-black circles under her eyes, as though life had socked her in the face. Hereditary, she said. Not from my side, I said.

  Her hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail; too-long bangs hung over her face. I bit back my urge to tell her to straighten up. How could she get promoted looking like she’d rather be anywhere but here?

  “Come say hi to you.” I sat down. My feet dangled in the chair. Sue studied my brown wool dress slacks and the cream cashmere sweater I always wore to the Commissary, along with my heavy gold rope chain. If I didn’t dress up for the store, I would never get to dress up.

  Her coworker popped up from the next cubicle, wearing more makeup than a prostitute would have back in my day. “Hey, is this your mom?”

  Sue nodded. “This is Shoko. Mom, this is Marcy.” Sue seemed relieved to be interrupted. I shifted.

  “How you do?” I held out my hand, my pronunciation careful.

  “I didn’t know Sue was half Asian,” Marcy marveled. “I thought she was Hispanic.”

  “Filipina, maybe look like.” People thought all Asians looked alike. Even Sue had a hard time telling the difference. I had tried to describe what the subtleties were; she still could not pick up on it. If she ever lived in Asia, she would know.

  “I don’t know these things.” Marcy disappeared back into her den.

  I wondered if Sue was ashamed to tell them about me. About herself. I played with my diamond engagement ring. It was too loose, spinning around my knuckle so much I was afraid it would fall off. Sue stared at that, too, then at my face, at the sunken hollows under my cheekbones. My face burned.

  “No office yet? I thought you manager.” She had pictures of Helena all over her walls. Helena in a school play, Helena at the beach. None of me or Charlie. No men. I touched the plastic laminate of the desk and blanched. “So kitanai.” Dirty. “They too cheap for cleaning woman?”

  Sue’s brow furrowed. I spoke again, quickly. “Not your fault, Sue.” No matter how much I tried to help her, or how hard Sue worked, she could not get ahead.

  Sue had always been bright, always in the gifted classes, but other parents were able to boost their children in ways I couldn’t. One February afternoon when Sue was in eighth grade, she arrived home from school and threw her backpack to the side.

  “Pick that up, Sue.” Then I saw the worried look on her face, still flushed from the walk and still round with baby fat. That year she had grown tall, bigger than most of the boys at her school. “What happen? Boy bother you?”

  “I have to do a project for the science fair, and I don’t know what to do.” She sat in our old armchair and pulled off the lace doily from the arm, twirling it on her finger.

  “Teacher no tell how?”

  She shook her head. Every night, Sue struggled with her science and math homework as I watched helplessly. English and art were her subjects. Her father was no aid, either. These matters were beyond us, especially the way they were taught in the indecipherable “new style.” I thought quickly. “I help,” I said to her.

  On the base of the mountain behind the house, I knew of a hollow that filled with rainwater if we had a good wet season. It was an easy, short ascent that Charlie had taken us to before, but still I held on to Sue’s shoulder as we walked the orange-brown dirt trail. I carried an old pickle jar. “We see if pollywog come yet.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “Hide underground. Egg dry up.” We crested the small hill. Yes, there it was, the small pond, bordered by boulders and wild shrubs and an old mattress someone had dumped. I sent her down with the jar. “Go find egg.”

  Sue grew the tadpole eggs in two jars. One she kept in a dark closet, the other in the light. Naturally, the one in the light grew better. It was as good of a project as I could come up with. Sue was happy with it, reporting on their progress every day. “When they turn into frogs I’ll put them back in the pond,” she said.

  We made the science fair display board out of an old cardboard box. I cut it as square as I could with a pair of scissors, but it turned out crooked. Sue used her father’s old typewriter to type out her findings. We carefully lettered the headings by hand and glued it all onto the board with rubber cement.

  “It looks pretty good,” Sue said.

  “Course. ’Cause Mommy help you,” I said. She smiled.

  The morning of the school science fair, I drove her to school. We walked into the auditorium with the sign and the jars.

  Instantly I saw that her project wasn’t right. The other students had bought their display boards, so they were bright white and perfectly straight. The headings were made out of stickers. But that wasn’t all that caught my attention. It was the quality. One had a big machine heart that pumped fluid from one plastic compartment to the next. One had chemistry-lab results posted, with charts and results from experiments that could never be done at home. Another had a huge working model of an engine.

  “How do this?” I asked Sue, pointing to the heart.

  “His dad’s a cardiologist,” she said. “That one’s dad is a mechanical engineer. That one’s mother is a chemist.” She drew her arms into her body and slouched. I did not tell her to stand up straight.

  In front of the stage, I spotted Sue’s science teacher in a cluster of parents. “I be right back,” I said to her, walkin
g over to the teacher.

  I had only seen him once before, at the Open House in the fall. He was a short man, even shorter than I was. He looked like a skinny garden gnome. “’Scuse me, Mr. Moynahan,” I said in my sweetest voice, tapping him on the shoulder.

  He turned away from the other parents, who smiled smoothly and blankly. This neighborhood school had both wealthy and not-so-wealthy families, but these parents all looked like professionals to me. Well groomed, the women in short heels and slacks, the men in polo shirts and khakis. I looked no different, I thought, in my own slacks and sweater set with my string of pearls. I looked like I belonged.

  Mr. Moynahan held out his hand. “Mrs. Morgan! Isn’t the fair wonderful?”

  I nodded. “Oh, yes. But why you no tell Sue ’bout what buy? How we know how do all this?” I gestured to the machines and charts. “How I know all this?”

  He frowned, then shrugged his plaid-shirt-covered shoulders. “This is how science fairs are always done.”

  “But you no tell kid how do. I no doctor. I no scientist. How expect me know?” I tried to keep my voice polite, but I could not remember when I was last so angry. “No fair, parent do all work.” I took his arm and walked him back to where Sue’s project leaned crookedly on a table. She was nowhere to be found. “See? I don’t know ’bout these boards you can buy at store.”

  “Haven’t you ever been to a craft store, Mrs. Morgan?” He examined Sue’s project.

  “I don’t got money for craft store.” I tried to think of how I could express myself better and wished Sue would come help. I spotted her in the corner with her friends, turned deliberately away from me. I leaned toward Mr. Moynahan. “You gonna give my daughter bad grade ’cause you no tell her how to do this? Huh?”

  He took a red Sharpie out of his pocket and wrote a B on her board. “That’s for the project, Mrs. Morgan. Not for the display. The display only matters if you go to the county.”