The Favorites (6 page)

T
hey
were halfway home when they met Mrs. Nishimura coming from the opposite direction. She held a parasol of pale blue linen in one hand and a woven straw basket in the other. The three stopped in pleased recognition. “You both look so nice!” Mrs. Nishimura said.

“So do you, Auntie,” said Sarah. Her aunt wore soft pink lipstick and a sundress of the same general shade as her parasol. Under the blue-tinted shade her face looked delicate, almost translucent.

“Ma-chan!” exclaimed Mrs. Rexford, her eyes still animated from the marketplace encounters. “Listen: go to Hachi-ya as soon as you get there. They’re having a sale on prayer incense—the good kind. And it’s going fast.”

“Really? Good thing you told me. We’re almost out.”

As they stood chatting in the street, Sarah became aware of a problem. Inside her string bag, clearly visible if anyone glanced down, was a box of cream puffs. It had been laid right on top so as not to get squashed, and it was wrapped in the distinctive blue paper of Ushigome Confectionery.

The problem consisted of several parts. On a simple level,
Mrs. Rexford hadn’t bought enough to share with the Asaki household. If her aunt knew about the cream puffs, she and the girls might expect to receive some that evening.

On a more complex level, Ushigome Confectionery was far more expensive than the store where they had bought the Nishimuras’ cake on the first day. No expense was being spared for the Rexfords’ visit—the best cuts of meat, the most expensive fish, gourmet-quality desserts. Mrs. Nishimura, who was Mrs. Kobayashi’s daughter too, had never had any such fuss made over her. Of course there were logical reasons for this. But there was a fundamental inequality here, one that mustn’t be flaunted. Imitating the sleight of hand she had observed in her elders, Sarah casually shifted the basket behind her back.

Her mother shot her a look of approval.

That glance, coming on the heels of Sarah’s remorse for her mother, triggered in her a burst of happiness.

Later, she would look back on this moment as one of the turning points of the summer. For it was the first time she had actively colluded against her aunt. Even in her happiness she was aware of crossing an invisible line of allegiance, leaving her auntie on the other side.

The lane that passed through the weavers’ neighborhood was narrower than the lanes at home and covered with asphalt instead of loose gravel. Although seemingly deserted, it resounded with the
gat-tan, gat-tan
of wooden looms from the houses on either side. These were the poorer dwellings, lacking the buffer of gateways or garden entrances. They were packed so closely together that they gave the impression of being one continuous building, broken up only by individual roofs.

When Sarah and her mother passed the open windows, many
of which were lightly barred with old-fashioned bamboo, the general clatter resolved itself into individual rhythms. In one house, it was slow and uneven. In the next house, the pace was fast and furious; someone was probably speeding through an unpatterned section. This lane was extremely narrow, almost claustrophobic with so much noise and so many miniature potted plants lined beside each door. The two of them, walking abreast, took up its entire width.

Then Sarah felt her mother’s hand slip into hers.

She stared straight ahead, unable to look. Her mother’s hand was warm and slightly calloused, and it held hers with the close, familiar grip she remembered from childhood. Sarah thought of the woman in the shrine, singing to her toddler in that tender voice. A strange burning started in her eyes, a slow treacherous swell in her throat. She widened her eyes so that no tears would spill.

They walked hand in hand through the cacophony of the looms. A straggle of wild grass, still lush from the rainy season, had pushed up through a crack in the asphalt. Its detail refracted sharp and clear through the moisture in her eyes.

“This little lane,” said her mother, “is the best barometer of Japan’s economy. I tell you, it’s so accurate you don’t even need a newspaper.” She said this nonchalantly, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

“Ng,”
said Sarah.

“Think about it,” Mrs. Rexford continued. “When women have extra spending money, what’s the first thing they do? They show off to their neighbors. They attend expensive tea ceremonies. They send their daughters for lessons in koto or classical dance. And what do all these activities require? That’s right, kimonos and sashes. And who weaves the silk? People like these.”

“So this noise means Japan’s really prosperous right now?” Sarah thought of the bells attached to the vendors’ money bags: the sound of prosperous commerce.

“
Soh.
The stock market and the looms move together. Every time. Remember that.”

Noon was approaching, and it was hotter than when they had first set out. Their clasped hands became damp with perspiration. Even Sarah’s bare arms felt moist. But she preferred this wet heat to the dry desert air of Fielder’s Butte, where the harsh, undiluted rays burned the skin. She felt loose and open to the world.

The heat had caused one of the houses to leave its sliding door slightly open, in hopes of catching a breeze. From within, mixed with the looms’ clatter, came a television’s tinny sounds of applause and merriment. Above the tiled roofs white clouds were shining, like explosions of giant popcorn. Happiness, like those clouds, hung just within their reach.

“D
on’t
forget,” announced Mrs. Kobayashi, descending into the kitchen. “Granny Asaki’s coming over after lunch to pay her respects to the altar.”

“I’ll put some new flowers in the altar vase,” said Mrs. Rexford. She stepped up into the dining room with a tray of freshly filled condiment bowls. “What do you think, Sarah-chan?” she said to her daughter, who was setting the low table for lunch. “Red camellias? Lilies are too tall. Or maybe a branch from the yuzu tree?”

Chan
was an affectionate diminutive paired with children’s names, a word with no real equivalent in English. Hearing this endearment on her mother’s lips, after all the years of grammatically correct English, made Sarah absurdly happy. Suddenly shy, she avoided looking at her mother.

“Yuzu sounds nice,” she replied nonchalantly. “The baby fruits are so cute.”

“That’s what we’ll do then,” said her mother, unloading the tiny bowls for Sarah to arrange.

It was two days since they had held hands. A certain awkwardness still hung over them, like that of sweethearts after a
first kiss. More than once Sarah had caught her mother watching her with an eager, open look.

Today Mrs. Rexford was in a playful mood. “Mommy,” she called down to Mrs. Kobayashi, “can’t Sarah and I have a little snack before lunch? We’re hungry. Please, pleeeze?”

Mrs. Kobayashi climbed up into the room with a shallow wooden vat of steaming rice. “
Kora,
what a lazy, spoiled child I’ve got!” she lamented. She shook her head with mock despair at the sight of her grown daughter lolling at the low table, sneaking a bite from one of the condiment bowls. “There’s a plate of sticky-bean cakes in the cabinet,” she said, relenting, “but you’ll just have to wait!”

Mrs. Rexford then turned to her daughter, who was watching the adults’ silliness with a look of wary uncertainty. “Let’s you and I raid the cabinet,” she whispered loudly, “when your grandma’s not looking.” Sarah’s eyes took on the look of a dazzled schoolgirl. Unable to come up with a response, she merely giggled at her mother.

“You two are hopeless,” Mrs. Kobayashi declared, descending the wooden step into the kitchen.

After lunch, Sarah carried the finished yuzu arrangement into the family room. The household altar stood atop a dresser. It was a black lacquered box, with two doors that opened out like a dollhouse. Inside, on shelves, were tablets that looked like miniature headstones, each bearing the name of a deceased member of the Kobayashi line. Some of these tablets were so old, no one knew anything about them. On the bottom shelf were a small white candle, a sand-filled ceramic bowl studded with green incense sticks, a set of prayer beads, and a miniature inverted gong resting on a silk cushion. There was a doll-sized cup for water and a doll-sized cup for rice. Each morning, when Mrs. Kobayashi cooked a fresh batch of rice, she saved the first
scoop for the altar—or more precisely for her first husband. Sarah was often awakened by the
chinnn
of the gong—surprisingly resonant for such a small piece of cast iron—and the muttered sounds of her grandmother praying.

She placed the vase beside the miniature gong, then returned to the kitchen. Her mother was squeezing out a dishcloth and hanging it over a bamboo rod sticking out from the wall.

“Would you mind taking these flowers over to your auntie?” Mrs. Rexford nodded toward a plastic bucket in the kitchen vestibule. It was filled with yellow lilies, picked earlier that day from the garden.

“Wait,” said her grandmother, who was bending over the icebox. “Let me wrap them up first.”

“No, I’ll do that. Stay there.” Mrs. Rexford bounded up the wooden step into the dining room. “I’ll go find some newspaper.”

Carrying the armful of lilies—its scent redolent of wet newsprint, freshly cut stems, and spicy blooms—Sarah headed toward the Asaki house.

The Asaki property was large enough to have several gardens. There was a formal one in the back and another one in the front, and two narrow utilitarian gardens on either side. Sarah took the left-hand path, which led to the kitchen entrance. The air was heavy with the scent of hot flagstones and the mingled smells of foliage opening their pores to the sun. She brushed past a wall of hydrangea bushes that exuded palpable moisture, making the surrounding air almost too thick to breathe.

Her aunt stood framed in the kitchen window, washing dishes. The kitchen entrance was flanked by neatly tended rows of mitsuba, shingiku, and komatsuna. Mrs. Nishimura plucked these tender greens each morning for her family’s miso soup, and often she sent her girls to the Kobayashi house with extras.

“Good afternoon!” Sarah called out.

Her aunt looked up with a welcoming smile, then came to meet her at the door. The kitchen was laced with the sweet, meaty smell of shiitake mushrooms cooked in soy sauce, and the tang of vinegared rice. They must have had
chirashizushi
for lunch, Sarah thought. “How are you, Auntie,” she said, presenting the newspaper cone with both hands. “They sent you these.”

“
Maa,
how lovely!” Mrs. Nishimura reached for the flowers with hands still covered in wet rubber gloves. “How well they’re growing this year!” She held the bouquet away from her at arm’s length, as if planning an ikebana arrangement in her mind. Her face, alight with pleasure and gratitude, filled Sarah with sudden shame.

Ever since the cream puff incident had ensured her place in her mother and grandmother’s inner circle, she was aware of taking her aunt’s rightful place.

All through her childhood Sarah had believed adults were immune to certain types of pain, just as lobsters (according to her grandmother) were incapable of feeling boiling water. That was because adults had perspective. They understood why things had to happen; they didn’t take it personally the way children did. This belief had consoled her when she fought with her mother. Regarding her aunt’s adoption, she had assumed that a grown woman would be mature enough to understand the situation.

But recently she had begun to question this. She sometimes imagined herself as her aunt, living just a few houses away and watching her real mother dote on the daughter she had chosen to keep. How would she feel, living so close but unable to rummage for sticky-bean cakes in the Kobayashis’ cupboard, or even drop by unannounced for a cup of tea? She didn’t think she could bear it. It was a wonder that her aunt had, all these years.
It was a wonder that everyone involved could go about their daily lives with such equanimity.

All of this stirred within her as she watched her aunt’s glowing face. “Tell them I said thank you!” Mrs. Nishimura was saying.

Sarah felt oddly like crying. “I have to go,” she mumbled. It was a relief to turn away. As she hurried past the hydrangea bushes she remembered seeing her own mother rush off this way after delivering something to the Asaki house. For the first time, she understood the contrition behind the two women’s painstaking complicity. For their happiness, like hers, had come at the cost of someone else.

“W
hat
a lovely yuzu arrangement!” praised Mrs. Asaki. She stood before the altar, ready to pray. Sarah sat at the low table and watched her.

Reaching into her clutch purse, the old woman drew out a set of mahogany prayer beads with purple tassels. She also drew out a formal monetary envelope, which she placed on the altar. Her envelopes always contained several crisp ten-thousand-yen bills.

Mrs. Asaki closed her eyes. Reciting rapidly under her breath, she manipulated the beads with deft fingers. Then, switching back instantly from the ethereal to the earthly, she smiled down at Sarah.

“A little shopping for you and your mama.” She nodded toward the envelope with twinkling eyes.

Mrs. Kobayashi and Mrs. Rexford entered the room with trays of tea and refreshments. “Won’t you stay, Granny?” they asked. Mrs. Asaki promptly took a seat at the low table.

Despite their private resentments toward the old woman, Mrs. Kobayashi and Mrs. Rexford seemed to genuinely enjoy these visits. There was, after all, a certain kinship in the women’s
extroverted personalities. With Mrs. Nishimura out of the picture, they could all relax and gossip under the guise of religious duty. In no time at all, they were shrieking with laughter.

At one point the talk turned to Mr. Kobayashi. Mrs. Asaki took mischievous delight in exposing her little brother’s childhood trials.

“Some older boys across the creek called him over to play,” she told them. “So he trudged over the bridge, and they boinked him on the head. He came running back, crying. But then they called out their apologies and invited him over again. ‘Kenji, don’t go!’ I told him. But no, he trudged over that bridge yet again—” The old woman did such a good imitation of a little boy’s eager expression that they all burst into laughter. “And he got boinked yet again!”

Sarah, who had just come back from seeing her aunt, was annoyed to see them all having such a good time. They had wronged Aunt Masako. They had no right to be laughing and having so much fun.

Still laughing, the women turned back to their plates. Today was so hot they were eating chilled tofu. “This sauce is divine!” said Mrs. Asaki. “What is it? I can taste the citron zest…and…”

“Miso, and rice wine, and ground-up sesame seeds,” supplied Mrs. Rexford. “By the way, we picked some extra citrons for you to take home.”

A reflective mood fell over them.

“That Kenji…” Mrs. Asaki shook her head indulgently. “All he ever did was play around and dabble in things, right up till he got drafted to Manchuria. We thought he’d never settle down.”

“And then he turned out to be so good at art! Who would have thought?” said Mrs. Kobayashi.

“Now, his little brother,” said Mrs. Asaki, “he was successful from the start. Shoehei was the one people noticed.” Her voice was hushed; Shohei had been her favorite brother.

Mrs. Rexford looked pleased. Mrs. Kobayashi lowered her gaze modestly. It was not her place to say such things, but she was perfectly willing to hear it from her sister-in-law’s lips.

“Shohei was so smart,” Mrs. Asaki told Sarah, “so witty. Always at the head of his class. They picked him for the executive training program when he was only—what? Twenty-five?”

Mrs. Kobayashi and Mrs. Rexford, both smiling, nodded.

Mrs. Asaki grew expansive in her generosity. “It was entirely fitting,” she said, “that the first hieroglyph in his name—
sho
—stood for rectitude and integrity.”

Sarah recalled old photographs she had seen. Shohei was tall and handsome. Her step-grandfather, Kenji, was handsome too, but much shorter.

A girlish sparkle appeared in Mrs. Asaki’s eyes. “Your grandpa,” she told Sarah, gesturing vaguely toward the other end of the house where Mr. Kobayashi was tap-tapping away in his workshop, “had a secret crush on your grandma for years. But she only had eyes for Shohei.”

Sarah happened to know—she had overheard her parents—that marrying the second Mr. Kobayashi had not been her grandmother’s wish. She had been pressured into it, quite forcefully, by Mrs. Asaki herself.

Sarah had never seen the tough side of Granny; her great-aunt was unfailingly cheerful and charming. But she did remember that when Momoko and Yashiko were small, Mrs. Asaki used to punish them by touching a lit stick of prayer incense to the offending part of their bodies: the hand, if hitting had been the offense; the tongue, if one of them had talked back. It was the old-fashioned method from the country. Momoko had claimed airily
that it didn’t hurt at all. “You can’t even see the mark,” she said. But the very idea had made Sarah dizzy with terror.

That night at bedtime, she broached this confusion to her mother.

“You know about
uchi
versus
soto,
right?” Mrs. Rexford said.

Uchi
versus
soto:
inner circle versus outer circle. Daytime television was full of family dramas based on this concept.
Uchi
meant the few allies in whom a woman could place absolute trust.
Soto
was everyone else—social acquaintances, in-laws, sometimes one’s own children—around whom it was best to remain vigilant.

“Smart women know who’s inside and who’s outside,” Mrs. Rexford said. “Wishy-washy women get confused and make poor decisions.”

“Granny’s outside, right?”

“Of course. And your grandma and I never forget it. But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy her company. Or feel compassion and affection, like civilized human beings. Just as long as those feelings don’t interfere with our true loyalties.”

“But that’s hard,” said Sarah.

“Well, you learn.”

“It would be easier if people were enemies or friends, with nothing in between.”

“That’s a child’s way of thinking,” said her mother. “You’re a young woman now.”