of us to sit.”
Miranda nodded. Out of the coffin and into the mortuary.
They formed a procession, with Mrs. Takahashi bowing to Miranda, holding the kitchen door open and gesturing toward a large, dark table, again ornate. Like the hall tree, it didn’t belong at Wilmot Street.
Miranda bowed her head in return, and sat down in the middle seat, taking off her gloves. It took a few minutes for the wife to usher in Mr. Takahashi and place him at the head of the table. His shrunken shoulders looked like a child’s against the high, carved mahogany chair back.
Mrs. Takahashi rapped out a few more sharp commands to her sister-in-law, and the old lady, glaring, got up and put a kettle on the stove. There was probably tension in the family before Eddie’s death, exacerbated by the husband’s isolation. The infirmities of age walled him in his own world, increasingly limited, increasingly distant. The women battled each other for control, even if both were careful to walk three steps behind him.
Eddie’s mother gave Miranda another pained smile. “Please. You are our guest. Do you like Japanese tea? Have you tasted matcha ?”
“Yes, Mrs. Takahashi. Thank you. I attended a tea ceremony at the Fair last year.”
The woman raised her eyebrows and looked pleased. “Good, good. I’m sorry this will not be a formal ceremony. If my Emi were here …”
The staccato word sounded like a bark. Even the old man pivoted to look at his sister, whose face was flushed and angry.
“That would be Eddie’s sister?”
Mrs. Takahashi’s glasses glinted, as she bent her head down, trying to hide her embarrassment or anger. The kimono lady threw her another withering look.
“Yes, Miss Corbie. Her Japanese name is Emi. She likes to be called Emily, just as Michi preferred Edward.” Behind the glasses, her eyes found a corner of the room. Miranda decided not to press her. Not yet.
She leaned forward. “Mrs. Takahashi, was Eddie in trouble?”
The whistle of the teapot made everyone except the old man jump. He seemed to be asleep in his chair, the mention of his son’s name not even provoking a flicker. The sister-in-law rose, grudgingly, and stumped over to make the tea.
Mrs. Takahashi’s voice trembled. “My Michi was a good boy, Miss Corbie.”
Silence, except for the sister-in-law whisking and stirring the powdered tea. Miranda pressed her hands against the table.
“But not all of his friends. Did he ever mention a Filipino Charlie? Or a Ming or Mike Chen, a Chinese herbalist?”
The liquid burned, and her arm flew backward, almost hitting the old woman who sloshed it on her arm—probably on purpose. Eddie’s mother was lost in memory, not noticing anything except the past. Miranda brushed off the tea, gripping the traditional bowl with both hands, while the sister-in-law glared at her and retook her seat. She wouldn’t give the old bitch the satisfaction of wincing.
“He was a good boy. He was confirmed at St. Francis Xavier—I am a Catholic, my husband is a Buddhist. And he almost finished high school. He liked music, liked the bands. I—I urged him to join the Japanese Marching Band, but by then … it was too late.”
She shook her head and seemed to make a decision, the fear and sadness dissipating like so much incense smoke. Anger replaced them, anger that made her hands shake the tea she wasn’t drinking.
She met Miranda’s eyes. “You know what killed my son, Miss Corbie? Chinatown.” Spittle landed in flecks on the table, on her hands around the bowl.
“Chinatown killed Michi, Chinatown and all the gangs and the crime and the boys who wander the street. He met them there, his friends, Filipinos and Chinese. No time for his heritage, no time for his parents, just swing music and nightclubs and girls and money, always money. This is what Chinatown taught him.”
Miranda sipped her tea, waiting. The old lady in the kimono, for once, was nodding her head in agreement.
“We all drift to
Miranda nodded. Out of the coffin and into the mortuary.
They formed a procession, with Mrs. Takahashi bowing to Miranda, holding the kitchen door open and gesturing toward a large, dark table, again ornate. Like the hall tree, it didn’t belong at Wilmot Street.
Miranda bowed her head in return, and sat down in the middle seat, taking off her gloves. It took a few minutes for the wife to usher in Mr. Takahashi and place him at the head of the table. His shrunken shoulders looked like a child’s against the high, carved mahogany chair back.
Mrs. Takahashi rapped out a few more sharp commands to her sister-in-law, and the old lady, glaring, got up and put a kettle on the stove. There was probably tension in the family before Eddie’s death, exacerbated by the husband’s isolation. The infirmities of age walled him in his own world, increasingly limited, increasingly distant. The women battled each other for control, even if both were careful to walk three steps behind him.
Eddie’s mother gave Miranda another pained smile. “Please. You are our guest. Do you like Japanese tea? Have you tasted matcha ?”
“Yes, Mrs. Takahashi. Thank you. I attended a tea ceremony at the Fair last year.”
The woman raised her eyebrows and looked pleased. “Good, good. I’m sorry this will not be a formal ceremony. If my Emi were here …”
The staccato word sounded like a bark. Even the old man pivoted to look at his sister, whose face was flushed and angry.
“That would be Eddie’s sister?”
Mrs. Takahashi’s glasses glinted, as she bent her head down, trying to hide her embarrassment or anger. The kimono lady threw her another withering look.
“Yes, Miss Corbie. Her Japanese name is Emi. She likes to be called Emily, just as Michi preferred Edward.” Behind the glasses, her eyes found a corner of the room. Miranda decided not to press her. Not yet.
She leaned forward. “Mrs. Takahashi, was Eddie in trouble?”
The whistle of the teapot made everyone except the old man jump. He seemed to be asleep in his chair, the mention of his son’s name not even provoking a flicker. The sister-in-law rose, grudgingly, and stumped over to make the tea.
Mrs. Takahashi’s voice trembled. “My Michi was a good boy, Miss Corbie.”
Silence, except for the sister-in-law whisking and stirring the powdered tea. Miranda pressed her hands against the table.
“But not all of his friends. Did he ever mention a Filipino Charlie? Or a Ming or Mike Chen, a Chinese herbalist?”
The liquid burned, and her arm flew backward, almost hitting the old woman who sloshed it on her arm—probably on purpose. Eddie’s mother was lost in memory, not noticing anything except the past. Miranda brushed off the tea, gripping the traditional bowl with both hands, while the sister-in-law glared at her and retook her seat. She wouldn’t give the old bitch the satisfaction of wincing.
“He was a good boy. He was confirmed at St. Francis Xavier—I am a Catholic, my husband is a Buddhist. And he almost finished high school. He liked music, liked the bands. I—I urged him to join the Japanese Marching Band, but by then … it was too late.”
She shook her head and seemed to make a decision, the fear and sadness dissipating like so much incense smoke. Anger replaced them, anger that made her hands shake the tea she wasn’t drinking.
She met Miranda’s eyes. “You know what killed my son, Miss Corbie? Chinatown.” Spittle landed in flecks on the table, on her hands around the bowl.
“Chinatown killed Michi, Chinatown and all the gangs and the crime and the boys who wander the street. He met them there, his friends, Filipinos and Chinese. No time for his heritage, no time for his parents, just swing music and nightclubs and girls and money, always money. This is what Chinatown taught him.”
Miranda sipped her tea, waiting. The old lady in the kimono, for once, was nodding her head in agreement.
“We all drift to
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