She felt sorry for Mrs. Kobayashi, whose daughter refused to pray at her own sister’s funerary table. The Izumis had their own brand of prayer, which was invisible to others as it required neither chanting nor kneeling nor going anywhere near the funerary table.
But as the tea progressed, Mrs. Izumi didn’t mention religion at all. Her new, quiet maturity was more disturbing than her earlier fervor. Back then, in her childlike way, she had needed their attention. Now this gracious “outside” face reminded Mrs. Asaki of her own daughter.
“You know, after I heard the news,” Mrs. Izumi said, “that very same night, a snake appeared in my dream.”
“Maa, how auspicious!” said Mrs. Asaki with warm approval. “Snakes bring good luck.” Her late husband had carried a snakeskin wallet for many years, as a traditional way of attracting wealth and good fortune.
“Big Sister was born in the year of the snake,” added Mrs. Nishimura.
Mrs. Izumi nodded. “It’s surely a sign,” she said, “that she’s doing well on the other side.”
The women fell silent, nodding at the truth of this statement.
Mrs. Izumi and Mrs. Nishimura were not particularly close. Even as children, they were too far apart in age, in temperament, in social interests. All they had in common was their big sister.
Under their placid expressions Mrs. Asaki sensed deep emotional currents, revealing themselves in a twist of the mouth or a look in the eye. Their relationships with their big sister had been complex and personal-perhaps even painful?-and they would hold it close to their chests.
She steered the conversation toward happier ground. “When Yo-chan was young, she simply refused to wear ribbons,” she told them. “She was a stubborn one. Quiet, but stubborn.” The women laughed indulgently as she trotted out reminiscences from Mrs. Rexford’s childhood.
“It was a simpler time,” said Mrs. Izumi.
Mrs. Asaki remembered those days as anything but simple. But each generation, she knew, viewed its childhood with blind nostalgia.
The last of their laughter faded into the midday stillness of the house. They sipped their tea.
“How’s life in your new place?” Mrs. Nishimura asked.
“It’s nice out in the country. There’s a big community of church members. It’s so cheap to live there, we can work part-time.”
“How nice. We’re envious.”
“There are orchards too. Last year, I pickled my own umeboshi.”
“You?! Pickling?!” cried Mrs. Asaki in astonishment.
“Did you do it from scratch?” Mrs. Nishimura wanted to know.
“Yes, I did,” said her sister proudly. Then her expression turned sheepish. “But I messed up the vinegar or something,” she confessed, and giggled. “They turned out so hard and bitter, nobody would eat them.”
Now that’s the Tama we used to know, thought Mrs. Asaki. It saddened her that these flashes would appear less and less often, then one day fade out altogether.
On the morning after Sarah’s arrival, Mrs. Asaki and her daughter visited the Kobayashi house to pay respects to Mrs. Rexford’s ashes. The house was crowded and noisy, for the Izumis were still there. Stepping up onto the tatami floor, Mrs. Asaki felt rather festive.
“The girls will be coming by after school,” she announced. “And their father, after work.”
“Granny!” cried Sarah. “Auntie Masako!” She was eighteen now. Her body reminded Mrs. Asaki of Mrs. Kobayashi’s when she had been young. It was in the slope of the shoulders, the straight set of her neck…When Sarah walked away to fetch some extra floor cushions, the old woman recognized the outline of her sister-in-law’s long waist.
“She’s grown!” she whispered to Mrs. Kobayashi.
“Yes. But she’s still the same little girl she always was,” Mrs. Kobayashi whispered back.
“She seems to be doing well.” The loss did not show on Sarah’s face as starkly as it did on her grandmother’s. Young people were resilient. But in the days to come, Mrs. Asaki would notice that sometimes, when the girl thought no one was looking, her eyes would take on the same unfocused glaze that Mrs. Kobayashi’s did.
“She has good restraint,” she added. She expected nothing less from a member of her own family, but one never knew with Americans.
It was time to move to the parlor. “Let’s welcome your mother home,” said Mrs. Asaki. She and Mrs. Kobayashi, fellow matriarchs, led the way into the incense-clouded parlor. The others trooped in after them, filling up the small room.
Mrs. Asaki was taken aback by the urn on the funerary table. She was expecting the usuaclass="underline" a ceramic container small enough to cup in the palm of her hand. But this was a wooden box of some sort-varnished, lacquered, handsome enough in its own way, but big enough to hold a potted plant.
“Americans don’t pick out the symbolic bones,” Sarah explained. “They keep all the ashes. That’s why it’s so big.”
“Ara maa,” Mrs. Nishimura said weakly.
“Granny, look! Auntie, look!” Eight-year-old Jun pointed to a red Japanese passport lying on the table among the flowers and fruits. “Big Sister had this taped right on the side of the box! Just like they pin notes on little kids in kindergarten.” He was clearly tickled by this comparison.
“I thought there’d be trouble getting her through customs,” Sarah said. “But the man at the airport was really, really nice about it.”
Everyone stood staring at the sturdy, outsized box.
“That’s a lot of ashes!” said Mr. Kobayashi from the back of the room.
Mrs. Nishimura turned to Mrs. Kobayashi. “Would you prefer to have the bones picked out properly? And placed in a more…ehh, fitting receptacle?”
“No, no.” Mrs. Kobayashi reached out and touched the box, as if to reassure her daughter within. “I don’t want her disturbed any further.”
“Maybe the Americans are right,” Mrs. Nishimura said softly. “The more we have of her, the better.”
Mrs. Asaki kept staring at the box, packed full of ashes by the gram. It was a stark reminder of the physicality of death. Her own time was drawing near.
“It’s somehow fitting, don’t you think?” said Mrs. Izumi. “It’s just like Big Sister.”
“Soh,” said Mrs. Nishimura. “She had such a presence, bigger and bolder than anyone else…” She laughed, her voice catching a little as she did so, and everyone laughed along with her. But the break in her voice had caught them unawares, and Mr. Kobayashi was heard to clear his throat.
chapter 30
Mrs. Rexford’s burial was a quiet affair, attended by only the two households.
“Let’s not bother telling anyone,” Mrs. Kobayashi said. “I simply haven’t the strength to deal with them all.” Normally such an attitude would have been self-indulgent and improper, but the circumstances were so unorthodox that it felt natural-and quite freeing-to make up rules as they went along. “Yo-chan wasn’t one for convention anyway,” she added.
“Proximity,” quoted Mrs. Asaki, “is the truest intimacy of all.”
They caught the JR-the Japan Railways train-at Nijo Station, next to Nijo Castle. It was the second stop on the route, so the platform was crowded. Mrs. Asaki and Mrs. Kobayashi, veterans of public transportation, scurried to the “silver seats” reserved for the elderly. The rest of the party, including Mr. Kobayashi, who was too proud to take advantage of his age, fended for themselves. They were soon lost to view in the crush of bodies swaying from overhead hand straps.
As the train wound its leisurely way through the city, discharging smartly dressed professionals along the way, the seats emptied and everyone could sit down. The stops grew increasingly obscure as the city limit gave way to open fields, bright yellow with rape flowers. The passengers changed as welclass="underline" plainly dressed folk on errands, students in navy uniforms commuting to school. The atmosphere in the train was peaceful now, almost timeless, like the wartime trains they used to take out to the country for black-market rations.