by Jay Rubin
“My God!”
“The baby was born prematurely after one of those beatings. It was a boy. The family’s dream had come true, but the baby was too weak to nurse. It died on the third day. Poor thing, it never tasted its mother’s milk.”
Mrs. Nomura dabbed at her eyes.
“How she must have suffered! But at least she had proved she could give the family an heir.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what her mother-in-law said. From now on they would treat her well, she promised. They would send her to a hot spring resort to regain her health. They would let her go to church. For two whole years they had not allowed her to worship Our Lord. But Mitsuko said no, it was enough. She would not stay in that house anymore. In Japan, a woman cannot divorce her husband, but she left his house and swore she would never go back. They had no choice but to divorce her.”
Pastor Tom asked, “Where did she go after that? What did she do?”
“All that time, Mitsuko had never told my family of her suffering, and they were shocked when she came home. In Japan, there is much shame when a daughter returns to the house of her parents. But they welcomed her with open arms. They showered her with love and understanding.”
“Praise the Lord!”
“They tried to make her whole again. Oh, Pastor Tom, I am so proud of my parents and my brothers! Their love for Mitsuko was such a great expression of their faith in God, a true witness of His love and justice. Their strength was in the Lord. In Him they found the strength to defy the hate surrounding them.”
“And all this happened just a year ago?”
“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“Lord, yes. You can see it: the light of Grace shines forth from her eyes. She is a true child of God.”
Mrs. Nomura’s own eyes were shining.
“There, now,” said Pastor Tom. “Aren’t you glad you shared your burden with me?”
“Oh, yes, yes, I am. Thank you, Pastor Tom.”
He reached across his desk and placed his hand atop hers. “It does my heart good to hear you say that. But now,” he said, sitting back in his chair, “after the suffering you have described to me, I’m almost embarrassed to tell you my problem.”
“I’d love to help, if I can,” she said.
Tom hesitated.
“Well, it’s Billy. All he does now is ask for ‘Mitsu.’ He can be a very stubborn little fellow when he wants to be. He’s not satisfied with Mrs. Uchida anymore. Besides, he’s too much for her: she never intended to put in such long hours.”
Mrs. Nomura looked at him, her black brows arching.
“I was wondering,” he went on, “if she has some free time … do you think she would be willing to do some babysitting? I’d be glad to pay her—”
“Oh, no, Pastor Tom—”
“Ah, that’s too bad. I suppose she’s very busy, but it wouldn’t have to be more than a few hours a day.”
“Oh, no, what I mean is you should not think of paying. I’m sure she would be glad to stay with Billy. It would be good for her, instead of the consulate.”
“The consulate?”
“She has a kind of job there. It’s not really a job. And she doesn’t have to go very often.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s the only way we could arrange for her to stay here a long time. U.S. immigration laws are so harsh. She had to come as an employee of the consulate. My husband had to pay a lot of money …”
“A bribe?”
She nodded and lowered her eyes, but then she faced him with a look of determination. “When I heard what they did to Mit-chan, I was so angry! I wanted to save her. I wanted to bring her to this land of the Gospel. It took us a year to arrange, but we did it and I’m glad.”
“I’m sure the Lord forgives you,” said Tom. “He knows what was in your heart.”
“Yes. I believe that, Pastor Tom. I really do. And it’s working. She has been here only three weeks, and I can see the difference already. She wasn’t ready to meet anyone at first, but now she loves the church and is looking forward to the next service.”
“Wonderful. I hope we see her often. And,” he added, smiling broadly, “I hope that we can arrange for her to spend some time with Billy.”
“Yes, I’ll talk to her about it as soon as I get home.”
Ah, the smell of fresh-brewed coffee.
Even before he opened his eyes, Tom Morton knew that this was going to be a special day. What a luxury to have a full night of unbroken sleep! Sarah had taken care of Billy during the night, and now she was playing quietly with him in the—
Sarah?!
He sat bolt upright in bed, and a chill ran through him. Sarah was dead. The thought struck him like a boulder crashing down a mountainside.
But, undeniably, he could smell fresh coffee. And he could hear Billy jabbering and laughing down the hall.
Mitsuko must have made the coffee. In less than a month she had gone from part-time to full-time baby-sitter to live-in governess. And now she was also turning into a housekeeper, unless Billy had suddenly learned how to use a percolator.
Tom rose and showered. By the time he came out to the kitchen, his hair still wet and shirt sticking slightly to his hurriedly dried back, Mitsuko was at the range, frying eggs and bacon. She wore a dark blue apron, and her rich hair was fastened at the back of her head in a swirl.
“Good morning,” he said.
Mitsuko bowed slightly, smiling.
“You really don’t have to be doing that,” he said. Her full lips moved with the struggle to suppress a smile.
“Daddy, Daddy!” shouted Billy, running over to him and waving a wooden cross. “Tumble! Tumble!”
Mitsuko pronounced the word for Billy slowly and clearly: “Tom-bo. Ta-ke-tom-bo.”
“Tombo! Fly tombo!” Billy shouted, handing the thing to his father.
The flimsy object, somewhat larger than Tom’s outstretched hand, was shaped more like a T than a cross. The upright member was a kind of narrow skewer and it was fastened to a flatter, twisted piece of the same material: bamboo, probably, judging from the straight lines of the grain.
“Fly tombo,” said Billy.
“Fly?” asked Tom, looking at Mitsuko. Wiping her hands on her apron, she approached Tom and took the “tombo” from his hand. She pressed the skewer-like part between her palms and gave one quick rub. The T flew up to the ceiling, where it struck and fell to the floor.
“Wheeee!” screamed Billy, handing the thing to Tom again. “Fly tombo!” Tom tried to duplicate Mitsuko’s method, but the crosspiece smacked him in the wrist. The second try caught him in the thumb, but the third sent the “tombo” to the ceiling and the floor again.
“Fly tombo!”
“You try it,” said Tom. “I have to eat breakfast.” But the simple maneuver was still too much for Billy.
“I am sorry,” apologized Mitsuko. “I should have maked something for his age.”
“You made it?”
She nodded, smiling. “I mean ‘made.’”
“Well thank you, Mitsuko, thank you very much. I didn’t mean to be correcting your English.”
He looked more closely at the simple toy. The curved propeller had been carved with great precision and fitted exactly to the vertical shaft.
She started to return to her work at the range, but Tom stopped her. “Somebody has to fly that thing for Billy,” he said, smiling. “I’ll serve myself. Thank you for making breakfast.”
She nodded and backed away.
From the kitchen table, he watched as Billy scrambled after the “tombo” each time it clicked against the hard ceiling and ricocheted off the enameled walls. Sitting on the floor with the boy, Mitsuko seemed to have endless patience. Billy’s delight was infectious, and Tom found himself smiling and he listened to Mitsuko teaching Billy the full name of the toy.
“Ta-ke-tom-bo.”
“Ka-ke-kom-bo.”
“Ta-ke. Take is bamboo. Say ‘Ta-ke.�
�”
“Ta-ke.”
“Tom-bo. Tombo is dragonfly. ‘Tom-bo.’”
“Tom-bo.”
“Taketombo.”
“Kakekombo.”
Mitsuko laughed aloud and held the boy close, chattering to herself in Japanese. Tom recognized “kawaii,” the word they always said when they were excited about children.
“Fly tombo!” Billy started up again, and another round of flights followed. For Tom, the novelty had worn off, and he was becoming annoyed. Mitsuko, too, seemed to be wishing for some relief. She tried suggesting that Billy find another toy or a book, but the child insisted that Mitsuko fly the taketombo for him. Tom wondered why she didn’t just take it away from him, as he himself would have done. He concluded that she must be waiting for Billy’s father to back her up with a show of authority.
“Bil-ly,” Tom growled, letting the word rumble in his chest. “Enough, now.”
Billy ignored him.
“Billy,” he barked. “I said stop.”
What was wrong with Mitsuko? She should have chimed in and told the boy, “Listen to your father,” or “Don’t make your Daddy mad.” But she just kept sitting there with him, letting him get away with murder.
This had gone on long enough. Tom started to push his chair back, expecting the noise to alert Billy to his last chance to avoid the strap. Instead, it was Mitsuko who looked at Tom. She said nothing, but she wore a grim expression and slowly shook her head from side to side.
“The boy must be disciplined,” he said to her, still in his chair.
Again she shook her head. Then, turning back to Billy, she put a hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye, her face suffused with a deep, quiet sadness.
Billy dropped the toy and put his arms around her neck.
Mitsuko picked him up and glided from the room.
7
AT CHURCH TOM FOUND it difficult to concentrate on his work. His mind kept wandering back to his little apartment on Summit Avenue. It’s two o’clock, Billy’s nap time. Mitsuko must be singing him that Japanese lullaby and patting him on the stomach in rhythm as he falls asleep.
He tried to recall the melody she always sang to the boy, but its twists and turns were too strange; no matter how many times he heard it, he could never anticipate the next note. All he could bring back was the sound of Mitsuko’s voice, soft and slightly breathy, caressing.
Going home at the end of the day was more and more an event to be anticipated and savored. Not even the long days of early summer could keep him in the office much past four o’clock.
Mitsuko and Billy would greet him at the door. Despite his protests, she would help him out of his coat and hang it up for him. “It is the Japanese way,” she explained. But when she went so far as to bring his slippers to the threshold, he found it embarrassing. For one thing, it made him uneasy to think of her rummaging around in his bedroom.
“Really, Mitsuko,” he said, “I asked for your help with Billy. I don’t expect you to do so much for me. And please don’t tell me ‘It is the Japanese way.’”
Her only response was that same sad look she gave Billy to make him behave. No matter how many times he asked her to stop the special service, she was there with the slippers and the sad look.
Finally one day, with more of an edge to his voice than he had intended, he said, “From now on, I expect to find my slippers in my room.”
The next day, when he opened the front door, he found a brand new pair of slippers waiting for him. Her determination was incredible! He tried to ignore the things and put on a stern face, but in the end he couldn’t help laughing.
“All right, all right,” he said at last. “If you insist on acting like a servant, there’s nothing I can do.”
She did not reply, but from that day on it became his habit to change into his new slippers as soon as he entered the apartment.
“You really should talk to that sister of yours,” he said, smiling, to Mrs. Nomura at the next Sunday school committee meeting. “She has too much of the old Japanese servility. We have to work on making her more American.”
“It is not servility, Pastor Tom,” replied Mrs. Nomura.
“No? What is it, then?”
“Simple cleanliness.”
He looked at her.
“In Japan, we make a firm distinction between the inside and the outside. A Japanese person would no more wear shoes in the house than an American would walk on the dinner table. I am always amazed to see Americans with their feet up on furniture—even beds—wearing the same shoes they walked in where people spit and dogs and horses foul the streets. I have lived here for many years, and still I cannot get used to it.”
Tom blushed and found himself at a loss for an answer.
That Thursday, a grim-faced Mrs. Nomura met Tom when he walked into the apartment.
“It’s Billy,” she said before he could speak. “He has a high fever.”
“Did you call the doctor?” he asked, hanging his coat in the front closet and changing into his slippers.
“Yes,” she said. “Dr. Wallace is with him now.”
Despite the warm June weather, he found Billy lying under blankets. The window was closed, and the room smelled of sweat and fever. There was some kind of contraption on Billy’s forehead. Dr. Wallace, a grey-haired man with ruddy complexion, was kneeling by the crib. He closed his case and stood to go.
“Thank you for coming, Doctor,” Tom said, shaking the doctor’s hand. “How is he?”
“He has a bad summer cold with a high fever,” said the doctor. “He will be okay, but you better watch him, Reverend. Give him plenty of fluids, aspirin. Try to keep the fever down. He should be all right if we can control the fever. That ice bag’s just the ticket. Couldn’t have done better myself.”
Tom glanced at the device on Billy’s forehead.
“Your housekeeper rigged it up with a piece of oil cloth. Neat idea hanging it from a stick like that. Takes the weight off. Anyhow, let me know if the fever doesn’t break by tomorrow or if it goes any higher. It’s up around a hundred and four now. Keep an eye on him.”
“Of course.”
Tom showed him to the door.
“Thanks again,” he called as Doctor Wallace headed down the stairs.
“Excuse me, Pastor Tom,” Mrs. Nomura said, squeezing past him at the doorway. “I have to go cook dinner. My husband will be home soon.”
“Yes, by all means. Thank you so much, Mrs. Nomura.”
“Let us know how Billy is doing,” she said as she hurried downstairs. He closed the door and started for the bedroom but decided to stop by the kitchen for a drink of water. Perhaps Mitsuko could use one, too. While the water was running, he noticed that the kitchen table’s scratched white porcelain surface was exposed. So that was what Mitsuko had used to make Billy’s ice bag. Very resourceful, he thought.
He walked to Billy’s room holding two glasses of water. Mitsuko was sitting on the floor by the bed. She looked up when he entered. There was a film of sweat on her forehead and upper lip, and a few strands had come loose from the tight bun in which her hair was always tied. He held out a glass to her, and she accepted it, but she waited for him to drink before bringing it to her lips.
“I am sorry,” she said after the first sip. “I will pay for the table cloth.”
She recited the words with touching simplicity, as if she had been rehearsing them for some time.
He could not help smiling.
“Never mind,” he said. “It was for a good cause.”
“Cause?” she asked.
“It was for Billy,” he explained. “Besides, it was old.”
“But it was still good. I put it in the drawer by the sink.”
“Put what in the drawer?”
“The rest of the oil cloth. Not to waste it.”
She was so serious about a scrap of oil cloth, he wanted to give her a hug. She must have been frantic, and yet she had had the presence of mind to cut the tab
le cloth and put the rest away. Instead of a hug, he patted her hand that was resting next to Billy. She did not move it, and gave him a glance before smiling a little.
Several times that evening, Tom suggested to Mitsuko that she let him watch Billy in her place, but she relented only long enough to cook a simple dinner for the two of them and to take a quick bath. She bathed every evening, never in the morning. As warm as the weather had become in recent weeks, she was apparently still taking scalding hot baths, judging from the steam that filled the apartment. The gas and water bills were up, too.
He went to bed at ten, setting the alarm for midnight. When it woke him, he put on a robe and walked into Billy’s room to spell her, but she refused to budge.
“His fever is still very high,” she explained.
“That may be so, but I can sit with him as well as you. Get some rest for tomorrow.”
“I will stay here,” she said. The day’s sunny warmth had dissipated, but she wore only the thin cotton kimono she always wore after the bath.
“At least put on a sweater or something. You’ll catch cold yourself. You’re not used to Seattle summer weather. It gets chilly at night. That kimono is not enough.”
“This is not kimono. It is yukata.”
“Whatever you call it, it’s thin.”
“I am fine, thank you.”
There was no point in arguing. He would get his rest tonight and stay home from the church tomorrow, when she could sleep. He went back to his room, though he doubted that he could fall asleep again. Still dressed in the robe, he lay atop the bed, reading.
At three a.m., he woke with his magazine on his chest. The night was silent, but after he had lain awake for some time, he heard a distant cry. It seemed to rise and fall with the wind. But there was no wind. And the sound was not coming from the distance. It was here in his own apartment.
He tiptoed to the door of his room and listened. It was Mitsuko, singing her lullaby, but her voice was barely above a whisper.
If she was singing, Billy would be awake; perhaps his fever had broken. Tom edged to the door of his son’s room and peeked inside. Her back to the door, Mitsuko sat on the chair beside the crib, yukata open and dropped to the waist, holding Billy in her arms. Even in the dim light, he saw her flesh, glowing like the sun in its full glory. Tom watched the top of Billy’s head moving as he sucked at Mitsuko’s left breast. The boy’s little moans mingled with the unearthly sound of Mitsuko’s clinging, insinuating lullaby. Tom turned away and hurried back to his room.