The Woman in the White Kimono Page 2

  One with tears.

  TWO

  Japan, 1957

  Grandmother often says, “Worry gives a small thing big shadows.” What if it were a big thing? The shadow that looms over me is thick and monstrous, almost alive.

  I’m up before the sun to help Okaasan, Mother, with the morning meal of white rice, grilled fish and miso soup, but I’m not hungry. My belly’s too full of worry.

  I’m almost eighteen, and tomorrow starts omiai, my arranged marriage meeting.

  At least now, with American ideals waging war on this ancient tradition, the introductions are the only part decided. The choice is mine with whom to marry. Of course, having the option and being allowed to make it are two separate matters. This is my challenge. One of many I face.

  Taking the plate from Okaasan’s hands, I bow to my father and brother as they enter the room discussing politics. A predictive conversation that flows from the United Nations and the independence of Japan to the dissociation from America.

  Father is clean-shaven with short-clipped hair—a preference from his army days—and wears a dark Western-style suit to impress foreign traders. Since Taro is Oniisan, eldest brother, and works with Father, he dresses and acts just like him. A perfect imitation, except for his sharp tongue—which isn’t held as prudent.

  “Soon, Naoko, you will meet with Satoshi, and secure our future earnings,” Taro says with a smug tone.

  “A fated match,” Grandmother adds as she shuffles in behind them. Her thin lips pull into a closemouthed smile, rounding out loose-skinned cheeks.

  I met Satoshi years before, so I would know if we were fated. A forced match is more like it, and what of my future happiness? Doesn’t love count? I place a cup in front of Grandmother and carefully pour her tea. “But first, everyone has agreed to meet my intended.” I smile closemouthed in return.

  A match to Satoshi is my family’s strong suggestion.

  A match to Hajime is my deepest hope.

  “Chase two hares and you will catch neither,” says Grandmother. This is but a single parable in her arsenal of many. She releases them like arrows, but instead of one, which breaks with ease, she slings ten to a bundle.

  I’m braced and ready for more when Mother steps between us like a shield. “I think for tomorrow’s meeting with your Hajime we’ll gather in the garden for tea and proper introductions. That may be best, yes?” To avoid my father’s questioning eyes, my mother fixes a wayward strand that has worked loose from her bun.

  Everything about Okaasan is neat and pretty. She’s dainty with a thin frame and long hair the color of soot used to make sumi ink. She keeps it wrapped tight at the base of her neck and skewered with long pins of jade.

  I gave a slight bow, grateful for her intervention. Before the war interrupted Father’s import and export business, he’d been a king of an empire, and our home had many servants, including gardeners. Now we struggle without help. We struggle in general, as everyone does. So, to utilize the garden means much preparation and work. Mother declaring its use for Hajime’s unwelcomed introduction quiets the discussion for now.

  Okaasan knows what is at stake. Maybe everything.

  Satoshi’s father, a powerful buyer for Toshiba, is my father’s most important client. This makes me valuable bait. If Satoshi is hooked, my family will reap the rewards in steady monetary gains to ease our burdens. If I refuse and cause disgrace, he could cast my family’s business aside, doubling our load.

  There is only one way out.

  Hajime must be flawless for tomorrow’s introduction to be considered a viable choice, and Satoshi must find me ill-suited and choose another. That way, his family will suffer no shame and mine will not suffer the consequence. My family’s fortune will continue to rebuild on its own merit and I will have a marriage built on love.

  This is my plan.

  In the struggle of stone and water, water eventually wins. Since my family’s mind is set like stone, I must persist like water to change it.

  “I’ll be late, Okaasan,” I say, ignoring the tightening in my chest. “Since I’m missing traditional dance club for the next few days, I’ll need to stay after school with Kiko to practice.” It’s only half a lie since it is a rehearsal. But instead of dance with Kiko, it’s preparation with Hajime.

  Kenji, my little brother, races in and lands with a thump on the floor cushion, rattling dishes and startling Grandmother. He is nine and too cute for his own good. Bright eyes and long dark lashes allow him to get away with everything, even bad manners.

  I cast a stern look. Kenji sticks out his tongue.

  With everyone present, we say, “Itadakimasu”—“I gratefully receive”—but my head remains low as I ask for additional blessings. Please let tomorrow’s meeting be perfect so Hajime’s lack of significant family name won’t shame ours or add weight to Satoshi’s prominent one.

  Yes, a belly of nerves, but a heart filled with hope.

  * * *

  The school day inched forward like a snail, slow and labored. Even now, waiting for Hajime at Taura Station, it drags. As I step from the train platform, the afternoon sun bounces off steel rooftops, blinding me. I squint from the glare, seeking Hajime’s face among so many. Where is he? I’m eager to practice.

  American men in uniform eat while walking past. Hajime will not make such rudimentary mistakes. We have been working on etiquette to impress my family. Never walk and eat. Sit to show respect for the time and sacrifice it took to plant, harvest and prepare. The Americans don’t seem to notice or care that everyone shields their eyes from their lack of courtesy. Everyone except for Hajime. He cuts right between them.

  He’s dressed in a white T-shirt and tan trousers. With his fine hair—the shade of cast-iron—slicked back and worn high, and the deep dimple in his chin, he looks like Elvis or a movie star. Maybe James Dean. We’re both crazy for all things modern. I wish I could have changed from my uniform. At least my ponytail sits high on my head in the popular Western style.

  I wave as he draws near.

  My smile already hurts my cheeks. Love and a cough cannot be hidden for it takes everything not to run or shout.

  We meet in an awkward moment of wanting to leap into each other’s arms, but settle with small bows, then laugh as we almost clunk heads. Hajime takes my hand—a social taboo—and, with quick steps, pulls me between storefronts into a narrow alley.

  I duck my head, worried we’ll attract the judging eyes of hardened hearts. “They circle like moths. We should go, Hajime.”

  “Well, like moths, they’re just drawn to your light. So I say, let them look.” He grins, revealing the sliver-thin gap between his front teeth. He leans out, yells, “Hi! I love this girl!”

  “Shhh!” I dart to his other side, press flat to the wall, laughing, but then ask, “What light?” I smile but keep an eye on the street.

  He turns and retakes my hand. “The one behind your eyes.” He squeezes my hand, then reaches for the other. “The one that shines from your heart.” He gives each palm a quick, soft kiss.

  My cheeks burn hot. Now I only look at Hajime. He’s such a tease, a boy but also a man, and the mixture of the two is delicious.

  He leans closer, presses his forehead to mine. “Hi, Cricket.”

  “Hi, Hajime.” I smile wider, amazed at how brave I am with him. To contradict a lifetime of lessons—show humility, stay quiet, place others first. All good things and yet... I look down, breaking his stare. His eyes will swallow me up if I’m not careful, but he cups my cheeks, tips my chin.

  “I’m going to kiss you right here, on the lips, okay?”

  I lean up on tiptoes and kiss him first.

  My heart bounces between panic and bliss. Who is this girl I’ve become? Like morning’s bloom welcoming the early sun, I open to him. Yes, he is delicious, sweet like kompeito on my tongue. And just as with the sweet
candy, I am greedy and tempted for more. To take what my heart desires? It is liberating. But we promised. Not again until we’re married.

  So, we break apart.

  I smile. Hajime grins. I smack his chest and laugh. Yes, who is this girl? He hugs me, and I know. I am his. Still me, but bolder, brighter, free. If I shine a light from inside, it’s from the happiness he creates.

  “I have a surprise,” he says with a kiss to my head before my release. “Come on.” With long steps he skips out of the alleyway, then turns, waving for me to follow.

  “Where are we going?” I double-step to keep up as he veers from the street into a field of tall untended grass.

  Hajime turns and walks backward with a playful smirk. He reaches down to pluck a seeded blade of grass, breaks it short and chews the end.

  “Where, Hajime?”

  His eyes, blue like a just-rained sky, narrow, then close as he turns. “Nope. Can’t tell you.” He peers over his shoulder. “It’s a surprise.”

  My eyes grow wide. He runs.

  “Wait!” I laugh, chasing his long, scissor-legged stride. The tall grass whips my exposed calves, but I will myself faster when he’s too far ahead, then slow when I no longer see him. “Hajime?” I look toward the nearby trees, glance back the way we came, then turn.

  “Ah!”

  I squeal from his scare, then cover my face, locking elbows in tight. Laughing, he wraps his arms around me, rocks me back and forth, whispers he loves me.

  And like that, I’m happy.

  I slide my hands down just a little, lean out and peek up over my fingertips. Hajime bends down and plants a kiss upon my forehead. Yes, I am his. He is mine. This is fate.

  “Come on, it’s just ahead,” he says, and tugs my hand.

  We stroll, fingers intertwined. Hajime with a new seed head to chew and me grinding worries. “We still must practice, remember? You understand the importance?”

  “Of course.” He regards me with a sideways glance. “That’s why we’ve practiced at least a hundred times.”

  “A hundred times is nothing.” My heart thrums discontent. “To fully master the art of tea, it takes years of practice, maybe a lifetime. To fully master the rules of etiquette, we now have only this moment.” I stop, so he does, and plead with my eyes. “Tomorrow’s meeting is everything. Please, we must practice.”

  “Okay...” He looks up to find the answers. “First, I admire the bowl, then rotate it two times, apologize for drinking before others to show humility and bow before taking a sip.” He lowers his chin. “See? We’re ready, now come on.” He tugs my hand.

  I’m not convinced, so I continue to drill him as we work our way up a steep hill far from the crowded street below. I’m not sure where we’re going, but I don’t let it distract me from our goal. “What do you do before you pass the bowl?”

  He hesitates.

  I burst. “You must wipe the rim with the napkin, or risk causing embarrassment, remember?” My stomach turns. Such a mistake will not be forgotten or forgiven. “Which direction do you pass the tea bowl after you clean its edge?”

  Hajime’s expression remains blank.

  Mine fills with alarm. “Left. Left!” My heart races and I walk faster, now taking the lead. “How are we going to convince them we’re a suitable match if you can’t remember?”

  “Cricket.”

  “We must be perfect.” I keep on. Marching, lecturing, panicking. “No mistakes. Not even one small error or they could refuse our request and force me to marry Satoshi.” My arms swing as my words run wild. “You are my happiness. You are where I belong. Do you understand? We are fated, so we must be perfect and make them see!”

  “Naoko!”

  I turn from the sharp use of my real name.

  “Do you see that?” He tries to hide a smile, then motions ahead. “Look. How could they refuse us when we already have a home?”

  Turning into the sun, I blink away spots and find scattered rows of tiny houses clustered along the hillside to form a hamlet. They are small, thatched-roof structures in need of repair. I pivot back to face him. We already have a home? Then my heart stops. “Here?”

  Spinning me back around, he rests his chin on my shoulder and points. “There. That one on top of the little hill is ours.” He smiles near my cheek and waits for mine.

  I only bite my lip.

  “I know it’s not much. It’s small and old, and not at all what you’re used to or deserve.” He speaks excited and rushed. “And I have nothing really to offer except a promise to love you and...”

  He loves me.

  What boy uses these words? None I’ve ever known. Not even Father to Mother. While he talks of planned repairs, I lean against him for comfort and breathe him in—fresh tanned leather and citrus. The uncommon aftershave has an exotic smell. I like everything about him because nothing is expected.

  “...and there, beside the deck, I could clear a patch for a garden. Can you see it? I know you’d live with Satoshi and his family in some big, modern estate, but—”

  “Who needs a big, modern estate?” I face him, surprising myself with the quick rebuttal. “Who wants a hard-to-please mother-in-law, or to dance around another family’s hierarchy and rules? Not me, so a small one-storied home, if it’s with you, is perfect.” With Hajime, my heart and mind are more than tolerated, they’re celebrated, but... My heart falters, and I look away.

  Why must this prove so difficult?

  “What’s wrong?” Questioning eyes search my guilty ones. “You don’t like it?”

  Dread climbs my spine.

  “Cricket, you know with me you can say anything. You never have to hide your thoughts, okay?”

  I nod, grateful. With Hajime, I am free to express opinions or act silly because he likes my thoughts as well as my smile. But how to explain this? It’s not the run-down little house that causes my alarm, but the community. It’s in a region that houses Eta, outcasts. The Burakumin are at the bottom of the social order. They are poor, some of mixed blood, and work necessary trades of death: butchers, leather tanners, undertakers. Therefore, they’re deemed tainted, unclean and unlucky.

  I am the unlucky one.

  My family will forbid it. To live here would damage Father’s reputation and Taro’s prospects to earn one. Hajime doesn’t know my family already favors Satoshi and to heap this on him, too? Another strike to an empty drum. I rub my nose and look at my feet.

  Such big shadows have been cast, for these are no small worries.

  THREE

  America, Present Day

  The morning of my father’s doctor’s appointment, we packed up his Cadillac convertible and headed east. The two-lane highway would take us all the way to the Taussig Cancer Center in Ohio, passing fields of soy, stalks of corn and miles of whirling metal. The massive turbine pinwheels filled the horizon with wind farms as far as you could see. Pops lifted the bill of his newsboy cap, dabbed his brow with a handkerchief and watched them through the rolled-up window.

  With sidelong glances, I watched him.

  We hadn’t spoken about his letter from Japan—what it meant, who it was from, how he reacted—but it didn’t mean I hadn’t thought about it. How could I not? He’d brought it. I caught the familiar flash of red on the dash before we left. Pops tracked where I looked, picked it up and folded it in his pocket. He didn’t say a word and I knew better than to ask, but besides worrying about his running fever, I thought of little else.

  Who had sent it? An old shipmate perhaps, but then the letter would have originated in the States, not traveled from overseas. A charity thank-you or newsletter crossed my mind. Pops did sponsor kids and causes all over the world, but it wouldn’t have garnered that kind of reaction. I’d only seen him with tears like that once—at Mama’s funeral.

  Pops barked a chesty cough, trying to clear his throat in
vain, then glanced in my direction. “You’re quiet.”

  “I’m concentrating,” I said, and I was. While the 1958 convertible was a showstopper—red-button-tufted interior, pearl-white body and deep red pinstripes that ran from finned headlight to exaggerated tail—the extended size made it difficult to drive. It was also the first time I had driven it.

  Although, when I was younger, before my mother could object, he’d have me slide in between them and I’d help steer. She’d scream when he’d release the wheel, keeping it steady with only a raised knee, and scold him to “slow down” when he pushed past the posted recommended speed. Riding in my father’s Caddy was always a fun adventure.

  Driving the classic convertible was a different experience. It was hard to manage, and as cars flew past, we were wind-whipped from all directions. Even with the windows up and my sunglasses on, I couldn’t keep the hair from my eyes. Having the top down wasn’t quite the thrill I’d remembered. I told my father as much.

  Like magic, he conjured a streamer of red from the glove box. It colored the wind and billowed like a majestic sail.

  My eyes grew wide with recognition. Mama’s scarf! I hadn’t seen it in years. I could still picture her wearing it—her ash-blond hair, pin-curled the night before, tucked in and under the pretty floral design.

  As I tried to position it over my hair, Pops reached for the wheel—the irony wasn’t lost even though the lane was. We drifted, causing another car to swerve and honk. I hurried to tie the tails under my chin, then grinned at my father.

  He smiled in return. “It suits you. You should keep it.”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror, saw my face instead of my mother’s. “I couldn’t. It was hers.”

  “No, I mean it.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Truth is, I always intended for you to have it, but your mother found it, and then what could I do?”