The Favorites_ A Novel Part 19

They were silent awhile, looking up.

"I look at the moon a lot," Mrs. Nishimura said, and a certain quality in her voice made Sarah take notice. "Like this, with the branches silhouetted on it. In traditional art, you know, the moon's never bare. It's always half-hidden behind branches or clouds." Sarah knew the art to which she was referring. She, too, had been affected by those old j.a.panese tableaus, by the sorrowful beauty of a shining thing glimpsed, only partially, through a layer of impediments.

Halfway down the lane, she looked back. Her aunt was standing by the gate as she had since Sarah's childhood, waiting to return her wave.

chapter 47.

Mrs. Nishimura's concert took place on a still, overcast Sunday afternoon. Sarah and her grandmother took a taxi to the matinee. Mr. Nishimura was working and Yashiko, having already attended the opening concert, had somewhere else to be. Mrs. Asaki was too old for these kinds of outings. Nishimura's concert took place on a still, overcast Sunday afternoon. Sarah and her grandmother took a taxi to the matinee. Mr. Nishimura was working and Yashiko, having already attended the opening concert, had somewhere else to be. Mrs. Asaki was too old for these kinds of outings.

They sat quietly while the seats filled up around them. The orchestra made discordant notes as it warmed up. The audience was mostly middle-aged and older since the concert was a retrospective, held in honor of a songwriter who had written many of the cla.s.sic tunes of the postwar period. War nostalgia was popular now. There was always something on television about a restaurant serving some wartime dish or a middle-aged person being tearfully reunited with a childhood friend from the occupation era. Sarah, who remembered how fondly her mother used to say "our generation, growing up after the war," understood this need to look back.

She wondered what her mother would have thought of this state-of-the-art auditorium. She could picture her alert eyes looking about, taking in the high acoustical ceilings, the discreet spotlights built into the walls. "They didn't spare any expense, did they," she would have said, "but I still liked the small, dark building from my childhood."

Not so long ago Sarah would have shared this thought with her grandmother, tossing out her mother's name as if she were still one of them. But it felt unnatural now, even forced. She was beginning to like having her mother to herself, like a private talisman. Her grandmother had her talisman too, and the two versions would become less and less alike as the years wore on.

She flipped idly through the program. Her knowledge of Chinese characters was spotty, so she recognized only the t.i.tle-"Songs That Got Us Through"-as well as the words Paris, Berlin, Paris, Berlin, and and New York. New York. Mrs. Kobayashi had mentioned that the choir performed abroad on occasion, though not everyone went. Many of them were homemakers with children, and their domestic duties came first. Mrs. Kobayashi had mentioned that the choir performed abroad on occasion, though not everyone went. Many of them were homemakers with children, and their domestic duties came first.

Sarah put down her program and glanced over at her grandmother, who looked demure and poised in her mink collar. "They didn't spare any expense, did they?" she said.

"Soh, they certainly didn't." they certainly didn't."

The spotlights caught the instruments down in the orchestra pit, bringing out the expensive gleam of polished wood and bra.s.s. This is is a real choir, thought Sarah, a choir to be taken seriously. Her aunt must have worked hard-and kept it to herself, so as not to give her family the impression of neglect. Not that it stopped Mrs. Asaki from saying things like, "It's a nice life she has. Singing like a bird while her old mother eats leftovers. But a real choir, thought Sarah, a choir to be taken seriously. Her aunt must have worked hard-and kept it to herself, so as not to give her family the impression of neglect. Not that it stopped Mrs. Asaki from saying things like, "It's a nice life she has. Singing like a bird while her old mother eats leftovers. But maaa, maaa, she loves it, so what can you do?" she loves it, so what can you do?"

Now the instruments died down and the lights dimmed overhead. Sarah leaned forward in antic.i.p.ation of her aunt's entrance. And in that moment, she knew with certainty that she was going to be all right on her own. Her mother had even said it: Once you've come first, it stays a part of you. Once you've come first, it stays a part of you. This moment, right now, was the strongest she had ever felt: being secure enough in her own powers to enjoy someone else about to have her day in the sun. This moment, right now, was the strongest she had ever felt: being secure enough in her own powers to enjoy someone else about to have her day in the sun.

The choir began filing onstage, one by one, una.s.suming and matronly in their navy-blue dresses. They lacked the seasoned stage presence of professional performers; one sensed these were ordinary women who, like the rest of the audience, had been personally affected by the songs they were about to sing. From the rising power of the clapping, Sarah knew the audience sensed this, too, and was responding to it. The choir flowed smoothly into its a.s.signed lines, like a marching band. "Front row," Mrs. Kobayashi whispered, leaning over to point her out. "Over there, third from the left." And there indeed was Mrs. Nishimura, looking small but composed.

The conductor strode in swiftly to the center of the stage, bowed deeply, then turned his back to the audience. He raised his baton and waited. The clapping died down. Someone coughed. Sarah turned her head to look up at the audience: row upon row of pale faces rose up in the darkness, waiting. On this threshold, she felt a deep, sharp joy for her aunt and also a fore-shadowing of what lay ahead for the three of them: not the shining, laughing summers of her mother's time but a tender new season that would resonate, like those bittersweet j.a.panese tableaus, with all the complexities of time's pa.s.sage.

The first soprano was a lone voice, barely audible. Then the others-second soprano, then first alto (that was Mrs. Nishimura's section)-joined in with steadily gathering force, and finally the second alto, its heft overtaking all the others. Their voices swelled to a crescendo, then paused, the notes spreading out like ink in water.

They sang of yellow rapeseed flowers, blooming by the roadside in spring. Sarah's mother had sung this song to her when she was little. Sarah hadn't learned until much later that it was about a bomb site in Nagasaki. Today, transformed by the orchestra and the sheer power of voices, its familiar childish words were elevated as she had never heard them: rich, omniscient. Small flowers are nodding, Small flowers are nodding, they sang out with one voice. they sang out with one voice. Cheery and bright... Cheery and bright...

Sarah thought of young Aunt Masako standing alone amidst flapping laundry, singing out to an empty sky. She thought of the strange power of thwarted emotions. She thought how pervasive thwarted love was, how it lay beneath so much of life's beauty. We let them ferment, We let them ferment, her mother had said, her mother had said, till you can't tell them apart. till you can't tell them apart.

chapter 48.

On a hushed, sunny afternoon when the last of the red maple leaves were drifting down from the trees, Mrs. Asaki came tapping at the kitchen door. As always, she had an official excuse for coming: to pay her respects at her ancestors' family altar. According to Mrs. Kobayashi, the old lady paid her respects quite regularly. "She looks forward to coming here," Mrs. Kobayashi had confided to Sarah. "Poor thing." a hushed, sunny afternoon when the last of the red maple leaves were drifting down from the trees, Mrs. Asaki came tapping at the kitchen door. As always, she had an official excuse for coming: to pay her respects at her ancestors' family altar. According to Mrs. Kobayashi, the old lady paid her respects quite regularly. "She looks forward to coming here," Mrs. Kobayashi had confided to Sarah. "Poor thing."

While her grandmother made preparations in the kitchen, Sarah readied the kotatsu kotatsu in the family room. She brought over an extra floor cushion from the stack in the corner-it was autumn, so the cotton covers were a warm shade of rust-and turned on the heat switch under the table. She glanced at Granny Asaki, who stood hunched before the altar, murmuring under her breath and ma.s.saging her ta.s.seled prayer beads with practiced, efficient hand movements that spoke of a lifetime of prayer. in the family room. She brought over an extra floor cushion from the stack in the corner-it was autumn, so the cotton covers were a warm shade of rust-and turned on the heat switch under the table. She glanced at Granny Asaki, who stood hunched before the altar, murmuring under her breath and ma.s.saging her ta.s.seled prayer beads with practiced, efficient hand movements that spoke of a lifetime of prayer.

"A little offering for your mama," she said afterward, nodding at the envelope on the altar.

"Thank you, Granny! Thank you so much." She lifted the kotatsu kotatsu blanket. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" she asked as her great-aunt lowered her frail limbs onto the floor cushion. "So sunny and warm." blanket. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" she asked as her great-aunt lowered her frail limbs onto the floor cushion. "So sunny and warm."

"Oh no, it's not too warm," the old woman said brightly, reaching under the table to feel the heater. "The temperature's just right."

Sarah smiled and settled the quilt around her great-aunt's bony hips. Mrs. Asaki watched her, nodding imperceptibly.

"You're a good girl, ne, ne," she said. "Your mama in heaven is happy with the way you turned out."

Mrs. Kobayashi entered the room with a tray of covered ceramic bowls. "You've picked a good day to come!" she told her sister-in-law. Placing the heavy tray on the table, she walked over to the frosted gla.s.s panels and slid them all the way open; they rattled in their wooden frames. Sunshine poured in, catching glints of gold in the straw of the tatami mats. With sunlight came the smell of burning leaves and the vague sadness of a season nearing its end.

Mrs. Kobayashi stood there for a moment, gazing out at the laundry courtyard. Above the fence the sky was deep blue, with that high dome of autumn described in cla.s.sic j.a.panese poetry. "How long has it been," she said, "since we had such beautiful weather?"

This, Mrs. Asaki heard perfectly. "Soh, it's been forever!" she replied. "Ahh, how good the sun feels! Like warm hands on my body." it's been forever!" she replied. "Ahh, how good the sun feels! Like warm hands on my body."

This mystery of selective hearing had been explained to Sarah by her grandmother. "It's only certain pitches she can't hear," Mrs. Kobayashi had said. "You and your cousins, you all have high-pitched voices because you're young women, so she can't hear what you're saying. But my voice has low tones, so we never have a problem. Now, your auntie has high tones, which makes things difficult. You wouldn't think it, would you, with her being an alto and all. But there you are."

Settled into the kotatsu kotatsu with her elders, Sarah did nothing more than smile and nod. She wanted Granny to have this hour free from auditory strain, so she could relax and have a lively chat without shame and disability hanging over her. She remembered how carefully and correctly her own mother had once spoken English. with her elders, Sarah did nothing more than smile and nod. She wanted Granny to have this hour free from auditory strain, so she could relax and have a lively chat without shame and disability hanging over her. She remembered how carefully and correctly her own mother had once spoken English.

"Would you care for some ten-don, ten-don, Granny-san?" Mrs. Kobayashi lifted the lid from one of the ceramic bowls. Steam rose into the air, along with a mouthwatering aroma. Granny-san?" Mrs. Kobayashi lifted the lid from one of the ceramic bowls. Steam rose into the air, along with a mouthwatering aroma. Ten-don Ten-don was a humble dish of day-old tempura, reheated in a flavorful broth and poured over rice and eggs. It was hardly the thing to serve a guest, but as Mrs. Kobayashi had once explained to Sarah, old people secretly craved comfort food over tea and fancy confectionery. Besides, this dish was easier on the teeth. Broth turned the crispy crust into a soft, flavorful mush that melted in the mouth, and the vegetables-sweet potatoes, carrots, eggplant-turned as soft as pudding. was a humble dish of day-old tempura, reheated in a flavorful broth and poured over rice and eggs. It was hardly the thing to serve a guest, but as Mrs. Kobayashi had once explained to Sarah, old people secretly craved comfort food over tea and fancy confectionery. Besides, this dish was easier on the teeth. Broth turned the crispy crust into a soft, flavorful mush that melted in the mouth, and the vegetables-sweet potatoes, carrots, eggplant-turned as soft as pudding.

Mrs. Asaki's aged eyes gleamed, and she hunched over her bowl with a little sigh of pleasure. With hands that slightly trembled, she lifted a chopstickful to her mouth. "Granny-san, it's delicious!" she said. She had always freely acknowledged that Mrs. Kobayashi was the better cook of the two. "It's been years years since I tasted this dish." since I tasted this dish."

Mrs. Asaki's reprieve was not just auditory; she rarely received such warmth and attention at home.

"That's why she fritters everything away on money envelopes," Mrs. Kobayashi had once told Sarah. "You watch, there won't be anything left for them to inherit. She always thinks of herself first."

"She thinks smart," Sarah had said. For in a traditional world where women had little power, Mrs. Asaki had used her wits. She had married well, strategically leveraging her physical beauty. And in adopting a child in her forties, she was surely motivated by more than the simple desire to love a child. There must have been an awareness that, in a society without nursing homes, a childless woman was doomed. A son would have been preferable to a daughter, but once again Mrs. Asaki had shown foresight by moving her son-in-law into her own home, ensuring her place within their family unit. And through shrewd use of her monthly pension, she still maintained a degree of control. All in all, she had played her cards well. She had achieved the security she sought, if not the full loving spirit that might have accompanied it. Sarah thought her great-aunt would have been an interesting woman to talk to, if she had known her as a fellow adult instead of a one-dimensional granny.

"Has Sarah-chan been telling you lots of stories about America?" Mrs. Asaki asked.

"Yes indeed. The child's a hard worker," said Mrs. Kobayashi proudly. "She tells me she works long hours. Large companies are very demanding, you know."

What Sarah had not mentioned was how disillusioned she was by her career, how little it had lived up to her expectations. She remembered her view of life as a child: a maze in which a perfectly good path sometimes veered off in an unexpected direction. She wondered now if that was the norm rather than the exception.

"Maa, you have a good appet.i.te," Mrs. Kobayashi said. "That's very healthy. Old people like us, we have to keep up our appet.i.tes or else we're done for." you have a good appet.i.te," Mrs. Kobayashi said. "That's very healthy. Old people like us, we have to keep up our appet.i.tes or else we're done for."

Mrs. Asaki, who had been greedily focused on her bowl, came to with a little start of embarra.s.sment. If her wrinkled skin could have blushed, it would have.

"It's good to eat," Mrs. Kobayashi rea.s.sured her. "Don't worry about appearances, Granny-san. We're past that, you and I." She covered the old woman's gnarled hand with her own. "We're the only ones left. We have to keep on living, with all our might. Ne? Ne?"

Mrs. Asaki nodded her head, like a child.

"Let's enjoy our food to the fullest, Granny-san," Mrs. Kobayashi said. "Let's not leave a single bite."

Sarah watched them. Both women, in their different ways, had forged through life as best they could. Mrs. Asaki had used foresight and strategy. Mrs. Kobayashi had followed a linked chain of great loves. In the process, they had caused damage-to each other, to innocent bystanders. And although they would never be true friends, each understood what the other had gone through. Each understood the nature of the journey. Life was difficult. Safe havens were few and impermanent.

Something of that hardship and peril transmitted itself to Sarah. Life will be hard, she thought, harder than I know. She wondered how she herself would make her way through life.

Was she equal to it? She thought so. For she could feel the women's reserves pa.s.sing down to her, reserves she would draw on in years to come. She felt a dim premonition of her power, similar to what she had felt the summer she was fourteen. Her mind flashed back-instinctively, as if fingering a talisman-to the summer day when her mother had held her hand in hers.

"You're right, Granny-san," Mrs. Asaki said in the singsong accent of old Kyoto. "We have to keep on living, with all our might." Nodding her aged head, she looked over at Sarah. "Ne?" "Ne?" she said. she said.

And Sarah affirmed it with vigorous nods of her own.

About the Author.

MARY Y YUKARI W WATERS has been anthologized in has been anthologized in The Best American Short Stories, The O. Henry Prize Stories, The Best American Short Stories, The O. Henry Prize Stories, and and The Pushcart Prize. The Pushcart Prize. She is the recipient of an NEA grant, and her work has aired on BBC and NPR. Her debut collection was a Discover Award for New Writers selection, a Book Sense 76 selection, and a Kiriyama Prize Notable Book. She received her MFA from the University of California, Irvine. She currently teaches in Spalding University's Brief Residency MFA program. She is the recipient of an NEA grant, and her work has aired on BBC and NPR. Her debut collection was a Discover Award for New Writers selection, a Book Sense 76 selection, and a Kiriyama Prize Notable Book. She received her MFA from the University of California, Irvine. She currently teaches in Spalding University's Brief Residency MFA program.