She fiddled with the brushes on the vanity. Kneeling on the tatami floor, she slid open the drawer and rummaged halfheartedly through its contents: Shiseido cosmetics, bathhouse tokens, an old-fashioned wooden ear cleaner.
For the first time she missed Momoko and Yashiko. She hadn’t seen much of them since the Izumis arrived. They were being kept at home, out of everyone’s way, for traditional women all understood the strain of hosting an in-law.
As matriarch of the Kobayashi clan, it was in Mrs. Asaki’s interest to support her sister-in-law. So the Asaki house was always open for company, as a sort of second home where the adults could go (although Mrs. Kobayashi never did) for a conversational change of pace. The children were encouraged to play there, and Jun visited often-he was fond of the snack tins under Mrs. Nishimura’s table.
Sarah thought back to those innocent hours she had spent playing at the Asaki house, safe from adult issues that didn’t concern her. Ever since she joined the ranks of her mother and grandmother, she had left behind that world of glowing shoji screens and warm tatami mats, the leaf-filtered light in the kitchen and crackers in tin boxes. And she couldn’t go back. She realized this with a twinge of sadness; it was like that magic land in Peter Pan, out of reach to children who had grown up. Not that anything was keeping her from going. But at this point it was too much trouble: thinking ahead to keep Momoko from being jealous, seeing her aunt Masako’s gentle face.
She thought of the times she had run freely to her aunt Tama as a child. “Where are you going?” she would say. “Take me with you.” She couldn’t imagine doing that now. It wouldn’t be right somehow, after the strolls she had taken with her mother-it would feel like a betrayal.
She glanced out through the open partitions at the laundry area, with its empty poles and lines. For the first time she noticed that summer had passed its peak; the sunlight had changed from hazy white to deep gold, almost amber. The late afternoon sun angled down in dust-moted shafts, reminding Sarah of stained glass. Accustomed to California sun, she was strangely affected by this aged, regretful light of a foreign longitude.
The kitchen door rolled open. Mrs. Kobayashi called out, “Tadaima! I’m home!”
“Welcome back!” Sarah called. She could hear the icebox door opening and closing in the kitchen. This was comforting after the strange, sad light outside.
By the time Sarah descended into the kitchen, her grandmother was standing at the counter and unwrapping newspaper from an enormous bundle of garlic shoots. A plate of thinly sliced raw beef lay nearby, its dark red an appealing contrast to the green of the shoots. As always, her spirits lifted at the sight of food.
“Can I help, Oba-chan?” she asked. Helping with the cooking was normally her mother’s job, not hers. Since only two people could work comfortably in the kitchen at one time, the women took advantage of this legitimate excuse to hold hushed, private conversations. “Put on your apron, Yo-chan,” Sarah occasionally heard her grandmother say, as if her daughter were still a child. “Yo-chan, are you holding your knife right?” Both women seemed to enjoy this.
“Maa, that’s very kind,” Mrs. Kobayashi now said. “Why don’t you get me the konnyaku and the fu out of the icebox. But put on an apron first.”
Sarah took down one of the aprons hanging from a nail on the wooden post. She tied the strings behind her with quick, efficient jerks the way her mother always did. It was like stepping into her mother’s body, and suddenly she felt shy.
Sarah’s relationship with her grandmother wasn’t as personal as her relationship with her mother. Since the two adults were so close, she was rarely alone with her grandmother. The girl loved her wholeheartedly but in the uncomplicated way of a child.
Emptying the gelatinous strands of konnyaku into a colander, she asked, “Did Mama used to cry like that when she was a girl?”
“No. Not at all. She was quiet…but you always sensed how protective she was, how strongly she felt things. I’m still surprised I gave birth to someone like that. Do you know the story of Benkei?”
Sarah nodded. Her mother had read her the story out of one of the books her grandmother had sent her. Benkei was a legendary vassal warrior, greatly feared for his brute strength and sword skills. He had earned a place in history for his remarkable allegiance to his lord, Yoshitsune. This allegiance had lasted right up to their deaths, when the two of them were cornered by enemies. Yoshitsune had died first, taking his own life. Benkei, mortally wounded from an arrow, stuck his sword into the ground and expired on it. From a distance his propped-up corpse seemed to be in a stance of readiness, so their foes were afraid to come any closer. “Even in death,” her mother had told her, “he protected his master. Nothing’s more admirable than that kind of loyalty.”
“There must have been a lot of Benkei in Mama,” said Sarah.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Kobayashi, “and it meant the world to me.” They paused while Sarah rinsed the konnyaku under the faucet and her grandmother chopped the chives with loud thuds of the knife against the cutting board.
“It was a hard time,” Mrs. Kobayashi finally said. “I’d lost my husband. I’d lost my newborn child. It felt like everyone was against me.”
“Except for Mama.”
“Except for your mama. Sometimes I used to go to the park where she was playing. And I’d beckon her over and slip a little something in her pocket. Like a bit of sweet potato, or a tiny rice ball with a pinch of umeboshi in the middle. The food was still rationed back then. Things were really tight.” She paused in her work, remembering.
“There just wasn’t enough,” she said, “for the other children.”
Perhaps to atone for today’s unpleasantness, or perhaps to distract the family from this evening’s O-bon foot traffic, Mrs. Kobayashi served sukiyaki for dinner. It was an odd choice. Sukiyaki was a winter dish, suggestive of old-world country folk huddled around a common pot. Setting it up required some effort. A gas hose had to be retrieved from storage. One end was attached to a wall outlet, the other end to a range built into the dining table (modern Japanese tables came equipped with such accessories). On this range, a shallow pan was kept simmering throughout the meal. They dropped in raw ingredients from a nearby platter, leaning over the steam to monitor for doneness before lifting it out into their private bowls.
“It’s kind of festive, cooking right at the table!” Sarah said.
“That’s why people eat sukiyaki at celebrations,” replied her mother.
“Let’s not worry about what’s seasonal,” Mrs. Kobayashi said to everyone at the dinner table. “With all of you living so far away, who knows when you’ll have another chance to taste your grandma’s sukiyaki?” Her husband gave a comical groan, fanning himself exaggeratedly. But he was quick to tuck in. The two men cracked one egg after another into their private dipping bowls. Little Jun, energized from his outing, recounted the baseball game in loud, happy detail.
“And then he hit a home run!” he said. “Pow!” He was wearing a new red baseball cap jammed on top of his old blue one. The men, too, seemed stimulated by their outing. They actually carried the conversation at the dinner table for a change, pausing every so often to wipe sweat from their faces with cotton handkerchiefs. Mrs. Kobayashi refilled their glasses with cold Kirin beer.
All of this, enhanced by the spectacle of sukiyaki bubbling on the table in the middle of summer, made for an unusually merry evening. Seven pairs of chopsticks dipped in and out of the pan like birds’ beaks, pulling out meat, onions, garlic shoots, tofu, konnyaku-all gleaming with fat and sugared soy sauce. Christianity was never mentioned. No one noticed the neighbors returning from graveyard duty, their footsteps slow and heavy on the gravel. By some magic force everyone’s tension had lifted, and the entire table seemed to float on a cloud of well-being.