How to Be an American Housewife by Margaret Dilloway Page B

family, but I knew the real reason why.
    “Does he know?” I asked my father. “Does he know we got married?”
    “Yes.” Father took a sip of tea. “He was hurt that he wasn’t there.”
    “No one was there. That’s why I’m here now.” I guessed that Taro was only hurt because he had no chance of stopping me.
    As though reading my mind, Father said, “Taro still wanted you to marry a Japanese boy.” He waved his hand at my shocked face. “He’ll accept it.”
    “Japanese boy?” Charlie said, that being the only expression he caught correctly.
    I shook my head at him in a gesture he had taught me, and smiled. “Eat.” Poor Charlie, left out by my family chattering away.
    My father felt bad also, because he leaned to Charlie and said, “You like Navy?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The door opened, shining bright light into the room. Taro stood silhouetted by sun. My little brother all over again. My heart ached.
    He shut the door.
    I stood. Charlie did, too. I bowed formally. “Please meet my husband, Charlie.”
    Taro stared at Charlie. Charlie held out his hand. “Nice to meet you,” Charlie said in slow Japanese.
    “Did you start eating without me?” Taro said to my mother.
    “Taro, say hello to Charlie.” Mother switched to Japanese.
    “Hey, cowboy,” Taro said in English, shaking Charlie’s hand. “Japan is treating you real well, huh? Got a wife and everything.”
    Charlie blushed. Mother was shocked. “Taro! Be polite.”
    Taro pursed his lips, speaking to me in Japanese. “What makes you think he won’t dump you when you get to the States? That’s what happens. American servicemen can’t get used to being married to a Japanese woman.”
    “I’m getting out of here.” I leaned over to him. “Remember who got you out of this place. Me. Now it’s my turn.”
    He made a rude noise with his lips. “You are disgusting. You’ll do anything to get out of here, no matter how low.”
    “Taro!” my mother cried helplessly.
    “If you could understand my position for one moment, you would know how hard this is,” I said, squeezing my hand into a fist. I was glad that Charlie couldn’t understand my brother. I hoped Taro wouldn’t punch him. I would hit Taro first.
    Charlie was nervous. “Have I done something to offend?” he said in Japanese.
    I looked at Charlie helplessly, not knowing how to say, “It’s not your fault.” It wasn’t Charlie’s fault that while he was being trained to call us yellow-skinned monsters, we had been trained to call them fiends. I didn’t have the English words for the bombing raids or the lack of food or the atomic bombs. To explain that some Japanese would submit in practice to being conquered, but not in spirit, no matter how much it only hurt themselves.
    Taro clapped his hands slowly. “Very good, cowboy,” he said in English.
    My father had quietly watched this exchange. “We lost the war, Taro. It is time for peace, to accept the hand of fate. Tokidoki .”
    Taro did not waver. He pointed at me. “You go to America and you are no longer my sister.” He muttered under his breath, “Pan pan.”
    I bowed my head down, my heart breaking. Pan pan was a horrible insult, worse than whore, what they called prostitutes who sold themselves to the enemy to make money. “If that is what you want.”
    He bent down by my head. “All I wanted was a simple sister, a sister to be proud of.”
    Taro straightened and turned to my husband, his expression implacable. Charlie’s forehead crinkled. “Good luck, Chuck.” He bowed to Charlie, then turned and left my parent’s house.
    At our wedding in my father’s church, Charlie and I wore traditional kimonos. As we were purified, as Charlie carefully read the Japanese words of commitment, as we drank our sake, I kept expecting Taro to walk in and take his place next to my mother. He had to. I was his sister.
    I never saw him again.
    It is important to support your husband’s work endeavors. In America, the