“Jun-chan, what a nice baseball cap you’ve got!” said Mrs. Rexford. It was navy blue with a yellow tiger’s head on it, for Han-shin Tigers. Mr. Kobayashi had given it to him when he arrived. “You’re one of the menfolk now,” he had told the boy, reaching down to tweak his visor. Over the next few days the boy would insist on wearing this cap everywhere, even to the bathhouse.
“I’m one of the menfolk,” Jun now told them.
“You certainly are!” said his grandmother. “It’s a lucky thing you’re here to protect us!”
Mrs. Rexford and Mrs. Izumi were reminiscing about friends of their youth. Bored, the little boy wandered away to the other end of the house.
“Mother,” said Mrs. Izumi, “whatever happened to Big Sister’s old boyfriend? The one who was studying Middle Eastern history?”
“Sekizaki-kun,” supplied Mrs. Rexford.
“Soh, Sekizaki-kun! I hear he goes around consulting for the big petroleum companies now,” said Mrs. Kobayashi. “Who could have guessed, back then, what would happen with Arab oil?” She turned to Sarah. “He was an odd one,” she explained. “For whatever reason, he was fascinated with that part of the world. Think: all that work to get into Kyoto University, then he defied his poor parents and studied the most impractical subject ever.”
“He had bite, that one,” said Mrs. Rexford.
“What’s bite?” asked Sarah.
“It’s a certain bravery,” said her grandmother, “an originality of intellect. Your mother’s boyfriends, they all had bite. Some of them are important men now.”
“No fair, Big Sister!” cried Mrs. Izumi in mock distress. “How come none of my boyfriends went on to careers of intellect?”
They all giggled.
“That’s because you dated bon-bons,” her sister said. Bon-bons were handsome, dashing boys from wealthy families who focused on sports cars and skiing trips instead of their studies.
Mrs. Izumi responded with a sour look, and they all laughed again.
Mrs. Izumi had met her husband in college. He was good looking and extremely polite; Sarah considered him romantic. His father was chief of neurosurgery at Osaka Municipal Hospital, but Mr. Izumi himself worked as an office manager. “Our Jun’s going to be a doctor. He’s going to take after his granddaddy,” Mrs. Izumi told the women.
Right now Mr. Izumi was in the family room, watching baseball. Mr. Kobayashi had joined him there, abandoning his work in order to play host. The men seemed slightly off-kilter, like caged animals waiting for their next meal. But they shared a certain solidarity, perhaps because they had been bon-bons in their youth. Little Jun, torn between his desire for male companionship and his attraction to the merrier women with their direct access to food, wandered back and forth between the two camps.
“What’s in this bag here?” asked Mrs. Rexford. She peeked inside. “What are all these books and magazines? Watchtower? What’s that, Jehovah’s Witness? Tama, are you into Christianity now?”
Her stepsister nodded sheepishly.
Tama Izumi’s personality had always tended toward the dramatic. Several years ago she had discovered Confucianism, and she had announced this conversion by sending the Rexfords a hardbound religious text written in the original Chinese, which no one could possibly have known how to read. Before that, it had been some fundamentalist sect of Buddhism, and Sarah had received a child’s comic book depicting in lurid, colorful detail all the intricate levels of hell.
“Hmm,” said Mrs. Rexford, losing interest.
“Auntie, what was it like growing up with Mama?” Sarah asked.
“Well,” said Mrs. Izumi, “everyone admired your mother very much. But”-she made a little pout with her lovely lips-“she could be very mean to her little sister!”
“That’s because you were a pest,” replied Mrs. Rexford with an affectionate bluntness she would never have used with Mrs. Nishimura. “You were always bothering me and stealing my things.”
Mrs. Izumi pretended not to hear. “Sarah-chan,” she continued, “are you aware that your grandmother used to make me tiptoe past your mother’s room while she was studying for exams? And then Big Sister would complain I was breathing too loud, and I’d get scolded!” She was so droll, so childishly indignant, that everyone burst into infectious laughter.
As an only child, Sarah found this fascinating and vaguely unsettling. Sibling rivalry was perfectly normal, she knew. But after so many weeks of heightened tact, it was odd to hear her grandmother’s favoritism acknowledged so blatantly. Perhaps over the years, other family tensions had drained her grandmother and mother of sensitivity toward the baby of the family. After all, Tama was the lucky one. She had grown up with her real mother and father, she had been spared the war years, and she was clearly vocal enough to stand up for herself.
“Did you notice,” whispered Mrs. Rexford later that day in the kitchen, “how she steered completely clear of the altar?”
Mrs. Kobayashi reached into the icebox for a package of yakisoba noodles. “Well, you know,” she said. “Our tablets are barbaric idols, according to the Bible.”
Mrs. Rexford snorted with impatience.
Mrs. Kobayashi sighed. “I wouldn’t mind so much if it was a quiet, dignified sort of religion,” she said. “But those people insist on going around and ringing strangers’ doorbells, like peddlers from the deep country.”
“I know. We have Jehovah’s Witnesses in America too.”
This was why the Izumis were visiting now in the beginning of July, instead of waiting until the midmonth O-bon holiday when families traditionally came together. Their new religion forbade the celebration of holidays: not just Buddhist holidays like O-bon, but also Christian holidays such as Christmas and-even worse in Sarah’s opinion-neutral holidays such as children’s birthdays.
“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Rexford said, “why she can’t spend two minutes making a gesture of respect to her forebears.” No one in the house, with the possible exception of Mrs. Kobayashi, was religious in a theological sense. Praying at the altar was routine, like eating rice or bowing hello.
Mrs. Kobayashi dropped a handful of onions into the sizzling oil, and its aroma drifted up into the dining room. Sarah, setting the low table, sniffed appreciatively.
Mrs. Rexford popped her head around the shoji screen. “Where is everybody?” she asked the girl.
“They’re all out in the garden.”
Her mother’s head withdrew.
Eventually Sarah heard her saying, “When you die, Mother, and your tablet goes on those shelves, what does she plan to do then?”
“It’ll blow over before that. Don’t worry so much. Just enjoy being sisters.”
Mrs. Rexford said nothing.
chapter 18
Sarah woke in the dark. Beside her, lying on sun-aired futons, her mother and her aunt were whispering.
She couldn’t quite follow what they were saying. She was groggy and the vocabulary was difficult. They seemed to be discussing philosophy.
She lay still, letting their voices drift through her mind. What time was it? The long drapes were shut, but above them a narrow rectangular window stretched from wall to wall. Through its wooden slats, the night sky glowed an eerie Prussian blue. The trees in the garden cast strange shadows on the walls.
She still had moments of dissonance when she felt like a Westerner. She was aware of the house’s smelclass="underline" an exotic combination of wood, tatami straw, prayer incense, rice. Sometimes when she brushed her teeth she noticed, wafting in through the open window, some baffling night scent she could only associate with melons.
“…and his heart is so vast,” Mrs. Izumi was saying, “he feels identical love for each one of his children. Robber or saint, it makes no difference-we are all the same in his eyes.”
“It seems kind of impersonal,” Mrs. Rexford said, “to measure out the exact same love for everybody, like sugar in a rationing line.”