The Favorites (20 page)

T
he
public bathhouse was closed for maintenance, so Sarah was preparing to bathe at the Asaki house. She padded up and down the hall, collecting clean underwear and socks and a new woolen undershirt from the
tansu
chest in the parlor. Her grandmother was staying home; she would wait until the bathhouse opened on the following day. “You go ahead,” she urged Sarah. Even now, old boundaries stood firm: Mrs. Kobayashi never visited the Asaki house except on formal occasions.

It was years since Sarah had bathed at the Asaki house. She had often bathed there as a child; it was quicker than public bathing and it gave the girls more time to play.

Early afternoon seemed the least intrusive time to visit. Her uncle would still be at work, and Yashiko would be in school. Momoko no longer lived at home; she had gone away to college.

“Is it too antisocial, slipping in and out like that while everyone’s away?” she asked. She suspected her mother would have chosen a more convivial hour.

“Not at all,” said her grandmother, helping to pack Sarah’s vinyl bath bag with a washbasin, shampoo, soap, and towels. “It’s the perfect time to chat with Granny Asaki.”

It was a long-standing tradition for Sarah to sit with her great-aunt and look through her photograph albums. This had originally been Mrs. Rexford and Mrs. Kobayashi’s idea. “Why don’t you run along to Granny’s,” they would urge the child, “and ask her to show you pictures from the old days?” It was partly to teach her etiquette. “It makes old women happy,” her mother explained, “to have people know how pretty they were when they were young. Remember that.”

“She was a real beauty in her day,” her grandmother would add. “I remember people always compared her to that famous actress, what’s-her-name.”

But playing up to Mrs. Asaki’s vanity was also the women’s way of ensuring that the “half” child, despite her Caucasian features, would endear herself to the matriarch of the family.

Now these visits served a different purpose: to acknowledge that the old lady was important enough, and loved enough, to receive personal visits of her own. Mrs. Rexford’s calls had been formal, peppered with deep bows and ceremonial language. But Sarah belonged to a generation awkward with such formality, so this was her way of paying respect.

“Oh, and while you’re there”—Mrs. Kobayashi looked up from Sarah’s vinyl bag and clapped her hands once, relieved at having remembered—“be sure you pick up our concert tickets.”

“Tickets? We’re going to a concert?”

“I didn’t tell you? It must have slipped my mind. What is
wrong
with me lately? It’s your auntie; her choir’s performing this weekend at the brand-new Civic Auditorium. You remember—the big building that’s been on the news lately.”

Sarah had never heard about her aunt singing. Oh, but wait, now she did remember something: a throwaway conversation from the summer she was fourteen.

The three of them—Mrs. Kobayashi, Mrs. Rexford, and
Sarah—had been sitting on the garden veranda one muggy afternoon, fanning themselves with paper
uchiwa
as cicadas droned in the maple branches overhead. Hearing the rapid crunch of gravel, they turned their heads to see Mrs. Nishimura hurrying past along the alley, her slender form flashing in and out of view through the slats in the wooden fence.

“
A!
Late for the bus again,” Mrs. Kobayashi said. “It’s her choir day.”

“Choir? Really!” Mrs. Rexford’s voice held the kindly geniality that accomplished people use when praising those with less skill. “
Maa,
good for
her
!”

“It’s with some other PTA mothers,” Mrs. Kobayashi said. “They’ve formed some kind of a group.” She leaned over and twisted off a dead leaf from a nearby fuchsia bush, placing it in the center of her lap to throw away later. “By the way, I’m thinking of frying up some gyoza for dinner. Or do you think it’s too hot?”

Sarah asked if her aunt was a good singer.

Her grandmother had considered this for a moment, gazing off into the distance. “I believe so,” she finally said, “but nothing outstanding, I think. It was always your mother they picked for the solos in school.”

Sarah now reached over and slipped her clean underclothes into the bag on her grandmother’s lap. “The Civic Auditorium, really? They let PTA choirs perform there?”

“PTA?” Now it was Mrs. Kobayashi’s turn to look blank. “What are you talking about…
aaa,
I see. No no, she stopped that choir years ago, when your cousins finished elementary school.” She seemed amused by Sarah’s confused expression. “You!” she chided. “
Anta,
it’s no wonder we’re at cross purposes all the time. Your information’s always outdated.”

Sarah suppressed a flash of resentment. But her grandmother was right; she lived too far away to be in the family loop.

“Your auntie’s in a
real
choir now.” Mrs. Kobayashi handed the bath bag over to Sarah and rose up from her floor cushion. “You’ll see.”

“I’m trying to remember,” said Sarah, “if I’ve ever heard her sing around the house…”

But her grandmother had gone away to another room.

She reappeared several minutes later, carrying a loaded tea tray. “I checked the clock, it’s still early,” she said. “There’s time for tea before you go.”

They settled into the
kotatsu
and chatted idly over a pot of tea and sugared black beans.

Their talk turned to the Izumis, who still lived far away to the south, where they held prominent positions in the religious community. They participated in various national conferences. Little Jun, now a teenager, was skipping college in order to devote his life to the church. The Izumis had a full life, for they had made many friends in the church.

Reflecting on all this, the two women shook their heads in silent wonder.

“We always thought it would blow over,” said Mrs. Kobayashi.

“I know.” But it made sense. For now her aunt had the loving family she had always wanted, with herself at its vital center.

Sarah had seen her aunt briefly during her last visit. That was the year of Mr. Kobayashi’s death, and Mrs. Izumi had come to pay respects. She brought with her one of those fragrant gift melons that were sold in their own box. Since she couldn’t pray at the funerary table, she sat at the dining room table and sipped cold wheat tea.

That was a busy afternoon. A stream of visitors had padded through the dining area on stockinged feet, bowing politely to Mrs. Izumi as they made their way to the parlor. Sarah kept her aunt company at the dining table. They said little. They lis
tened to the miniature gong in the next room, to the hushed babble of voices as visitors exchanged greetings with the lady of the house. Sarah had wondered if her aunt felt any longing to join that group, to stand for one last time before the altar from which she had exiled herself.

During a lull, Sarah had placed her aunt’s melon on a dish and taken it into the parlor. But the table was already full, cluttered with orchids and fruits and pastries. She put the melon on the floor, on the other side of the table, where people’s feet wouldn’t strike it.

“Mama and Grandpa used to love those melons,” she told her aunt, going back into the dining room. “Auntie, you’re the only one who remembered.”

Her aunt had smiled at her, and the sweetness of that smile flooded Sarah’s heart with a great tenderness. It was her old childhood crush, refined over the years to something bittersweet. Mrs. Izumi had grown a bit stouter, but she was still pretty. She had achieved the settled, contented air of a matron, with nothing left of the old coquettish vivacity.

Sarah now asked, “Does Auntie Tama still wear her hair swept back in a French twist? The same way Mama did?”

“As far as I know. She still copies a lot of things from your mother. She looked up to her so much, you know. I think it went deep.” Mrs. Kobayashi shifted position under the
kotatsu
blanket. “This blanket’s so hot!” she said. “I’m turning down the heat switch.” In the same breath she added, “She wants me to come live with them.”

“Really!” Sarah thought her aunt had given up by now. But one never knew about people.

“I told her I’d think about it, but…”

The original plan had been for Mrs. Kobayashi to come live with the Rexfords when the time came. She and Mrs. Rexford
had often talked of the things they would do together: the dishes they would cook, the garden they would tend. Having looked forward to this for so long, it must have been hard for Mrs. Kobayashi to imagine living with anyone else. It was reminiscent, in a way, of marrying for the second time when it was the other sibling she really wanted.

“
Ne,
Grandma, it’s not as if you need looking after. I mean, you’re still walking around wearing
heels.
”

“Exactly! I plan to stay independent as long as possible,” said Mrs. Kobayashi. “I overhear those women at the bathhouse, the ones who live with their children. And I can guess what’s going on with Granny Asaki, even though she puts on a public face…It’s a secure life, to be sure. But secure doesn’t mean easy. Human nature being what it is, it’s best to think twice before putting yourself at someone else’s mercy.”

Sarah liked this about her grandmother: the worldliness that surfaced at unexpected times.

“I suppose moving out there is the smart thing to do,” continued Mrs. Kobayashi. “It’s not as if there’s any other…” She gave a little sigh.

“But you want to stay near Auntie Masako, don’t you.”

“Yes. I think…I think she’d like me to stay. I mean, she’s never asked me outright. But I want to be near her anyway.”

“But Granny might not die for a long time. She’s really healthy. She’ll probably live to be a hundred.”

“Yes, I know.”

Sarah imagined the women’s future: chance meetings in the open-air market, brief stolen moments over a bit of grilled eel or liver. She had been here long enough to see that for all their new closeness, there was little change in their day-to-day routine.

“It doesn’t seem like enough,” Sarah said. “You hardly even see each other, or talk, or anything. It just doesn’t seem fair.”

“It’s
not
fair,” said Mrs. Kobayashi. “But it’s enough.”

“Oh, Grandma.” Sarah felt a great sadness. “Why can’t you spend more time together? Those old boundaries can’t possibly matter now. You’re her
mother.
”

“I gave Granny-san my word. After she’s gone—”

“But what if you die
first
?” Sarah’s voice rose in spite of herself. “Granny’s had all those good years. You and Auntie didn’t have any. It’s not right.”

Mrs. Kobayashi shook her head stubbornly. “I don’t agree,” she said. “And I know your auntie feels the same way I do.” Sarah, sensing that gap of generation and culture between them, knew it was a lost cause.

“It’s like a love affair,” she marveled. “A sad, beautiful love affair.”

Her grandmother nodded. “Romance isn’t just between men and women,” she said. “It’s a state of mind, I suppose. It may be beautiful but it comes with pain. And sacrifice. Not just for yourself, but for others around you. I’ve often thought that being
in love
is bad for a family. It’s much less risky when people merely
love.
There’s a big difference, you know.”

Sarah sipped her tea, pondering this.

“I’ve been in love all my life,” said Mrs. Kobayashi.

“Your whole life?”

“My whole life. It’s the one part of me I always protected.”

Growing up, Sarah had thought of her grandmother’s charisma only as it related to her mother. With her mother gone, she could see her grandmother had a force of her own. It wasn’t the social magnetism of her mother. Nor was it the fetching femininity of her aunt Tama. Her grandmother’s charisma went deeper, somehow, than those surface attractions. She made people feel something of the magic and purity and passion that were still possible in this world.

“I admire you,” Sarah said impulsively. “I do. Not many people are brave enough to give up security for love.” Her vehemence made them both laugh. She felt her sadness lift, replaced by a girlish kind of optimism.

“Your mother, she had that quality too,” said Mrs. Kobayashi. “That’s why we got along.”

Sarah, remembering, nodded. From somewhere outside in the rainy afternoon, there came the muted
pee-poh pee-poh
of a passing ambulance.

“And you got a chance to experience it. But your auntie, she never had much opportunity for romance.”

“Not until now,” Sarah said.

“That’s right,” said her grandmother. “Not until now.”

A
fter
her tea, Sarah slipped her sock-clad feet into an old pair of geta and clopped over to the Asaki house. A drizzle made pinpricks of sound on her umbrella and on the surrounding garden foliage. She lingered in the lane, breathing in the smell of rain and leaves and wet wood.

Alerted by the sound of the garden gate rolling open, Mrs. Nishimura came to meet Sarah at the door. “Go right on up, Sarah-chan,” she said. “Granny’s waiting for you. I’ll bring up refreshments a little later.”

Sarah climbed the old-fashioned stairs, which were exceedingly steep and made her feel as if she were climbing a stepladder. She planted her hands firmly on the step above her—partly because there were no handrails, only wooden walls, and partly because her socks had no traction against the aged, slippery wood. Dangerous, she thought. But no one in this family, young or old, had ever had an accident.

Emerging from the dark stairway onto the landing, Sarah slid open the
fusuma
panel and found her great-aunt hunched over a
kotatsu
near the glass panels. All around her, strewn on the tatami floor, were drifts of persimmon leaves. Each year she col
lected them from the tree in the back garden, while they were still pliable enough to wipe clean with a moist cloth. This she did painstakingly over a period of weeks—she had little else to do—and when they dried out completely, she crumbled them in tins to use as medicinal tea throughout the year. “It’s excellent for a woman’s health,” she always said, though the tea was so bitter no one else would drink it.

“Sarah-chan!” Mrs. Asaki put down the leaf she was wiping. “Come in, come in!”

Reverently, Sarah stepped over the threshold. Nothing had changed since her childhood: the thick
fusuma
panels inlaid with green seaweed; the view from the balcony, now shrouded in mist; caged finches hanging in a corner. The shoji panels had been pushed aside and the spacious room pulsed with a white, watery light.

“Come, come,” cried the old woman gaily in her singsong accent. “Don’t mind the leaves, just step around. Come, sit down.” In old age she was hunchbacked, with a body as frail and insubstantial as a child’s. But her spirit was as game as ever. She still dyed her hair the old-fashioned way, using some kind of dried plant sold by Chinese herbalists.

Mrs. Asaki now lifted the edge of the
kotatsu
quilt for Sarah to slip under, as if holding open a door. Sarah acknowledged this with a smile and a half-bow of thanks, feeling a sudden rush of love for this old woman who had filled her earliest memories with nursery chants and games. “Granny,” she said. “I’m so happy to see you healthy and thriving each time I visit.”

“Tell her hello too,” Mrs. Asaki replied. “Tell her that when all this rain passes, I’d love to pay my respects to the altar.”

There had been several such moments lately, for Mrs. Asaki was losing her hearing. But she was a proud woman, too proud to say “What?” She faked her way with aplomb, and only occa
sional slips betrayed the effort with which she hid her infirmity. Sarah never let on that she knew. She merely spoke as little as possible, relying on smiles, nods, and comments that were easy to lip-read.

She reached for one of the albums lying on the
kotatsu
in preparation for her visit. Mrs. Asaki picked up her persimmon leaf and commenced wiping. They sat in companionable silence while the finches ruffled their feathers and pecked contentedly at their feed. Every so often Sarah slid the book toward her great-aunt and remarked, “So pretty!” or “Auntie was so cute!” Her great-aunt gave a pleased cackle and replied: “That was a high school field trip.” Or, “That was two years after I got married.”

Here was a photograph of Mrs. Asaki as a young woman: tall, unrecognizably beautiful, standing under a tree. She wore a white fur draped around her neck and down the side of her silk kimono. She had grown up in the rural outskirts of Kyoto, the daughter of a town mayor. Despite this unremarkable pedigree, she had married into a fine old family in the city on the strength of her looks. In this picture she was tilting her head demurely to the side, but her sloe-eyed gaze held that gleam that beautiful women have when they know they’re invincible.

Sarah knew that Granny had been asked to stay upstairs to make things easier on everyone. It was too bad; social activity had been her lifeblood. Mrs. Kobayashi sympathized too. “Poor thing,” she had said. “It would be so much healthier if she could chatter away in a public bathhouse, instead of being cooped up there all alone.” But theirs was more of a philosophical pity, for they also understood Mrs. Nishimura’s position. As Sarah’s mother used to say: What can you do? There was no perfect solution, and right now it was Mrs. Nishimura’s turn to bloom at the expense of someone else.

The old woman never let on that her circumstances weren’t
ideal. “Who wants to run about at my age?” she bragged. “I’m perfectly happy in my little kingdom upstairs. Surrounded by family, waited on hand and foot,
maa maa,
I’m incredibly lucky…”

Sarah scrutinized the photograph again. Mrs. Asaki, glancing over to see what was taking so much time, gave a little laugh of recognition. “I was young then,” she said.

In college, Sarah had learned that history was the study of power rising and power falling. Sitting here, leafing through the pages of another woman’s life, she felt the truth of this and was humbled. It occurred to her that her own past—the trio of her mother and grandmother and herself that had once seemed so extraordinary, strong and shining like the sun—was hardly unique. Countless other suns, like her great-aunt’s, had risen and fallen as a matter of course, each with its own forgotten story, its own poignance.