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“Yeah.” The cat in his arms purred. He put his nose to its nose.
“You not watch so much TV. Make brain Jell-O. Read book.” I scratched the cat’s neck. It licked my hand, sandpapery wet.
“Okay.” Mike opened his door and disappeared inside.
I wondered if we should keep letting him move back in.
After all, he was fifty. But he still hadn’t married. And who would ever marry him?
I raised him like my mother had raised my brother. By doing everything for him. I knew no better. I had hoped he would still grow up to be a hard worker. Japanese boys turn out fine raised like this, but apparently not Americans. Or not my son.
When Mike was a toddler and we lived in Virginia, I’d take him to the park and try to meet other children for playmates. For both of us.
Children that young -— Mike was a year and a half -— didn’t care what a child looked like. Their mothers did. “He doesn’t look the least bit American,” one mother remarked to me as our sons dug sand near each other. “He really takes after you.”
The mothers varied from polite to downright cold. I couldn’t blame them. Some had lost their fathers in the war with Japan. But I felt they could afford to be a little forgiving, seeing as how we lost in the end. Especially the manner in which we lost.
Time did not make our way smoother. When Mike was twelve and playing Little League in Oakland, all the mothers had to make treats for their end-of-season party. Mike had told me about it as I sat on the bleachers watching the game, by myself, on the top row. “It’s tomorrow,” he said, throwing the ball into his mitt and not looking at me.
The other mothers sat a few rows down or clumped in groups of two or three. They wore button-down shirts in pastel colors and capri pants, like a secret uniform. “Why they no tell me?” I asked.
He shrugged and asked for snack money. I gave him a quarter and moved two benches down to Jackie, the team mother. Jackie had dark hair and a fl ip just like Jackie O, whom she resembled. She wore a giant fl oppy straw hat.
Jackie smiled politely and I back at her. “Hi, Shoko, how are you?”
“Very well, thank you.” I used my softest, most pleasant voice. “Jackie. I bring popacor-nu barus to party.”
“What’s that?” Jackie said, not moving her lips from the smile.
“Popacor-nu barus.”
She blinked. “I’m sorry. One more time?”
“Popacor-nu. Barus.” I made the shape with my hands.
Jackie was silent, her head cocked to the side, the smile fading. The other mothers watched. Did they not understand, either?
Mike had come back and was standing in the dirt by the bleachers, watching. “It’s popcorn balls!” he shouted. “What the hell is so hard to understand? You people are stupid. This team is stupid.” He threw his hat down.
I never went to another game. But neither did I cry about it. Mike did not, either, or if he did, he did not let us know. I sorrowed for Mike. He had not changed much from the little boy on the front stoop. Less fussy, yes. But still easily broken. No one had ever been able to understand him. Always, he was moody, a loner, smart as a whip but lazy. Often he was in his own world, amusing himself. Today, Charlie said Mike might have been called “mildly autistic,” but not when he was growing up. Back then, he was just different, and we had done the best we could.
I only hoped that Charlie would let Mike keep staying here after I was gone. He had nowhere else to go.
Charlie came down the hall, a mug of Sanka in his hands. “You want to have spaghetti tonight?”
“No, no,” I murmured. “We out of noodle.” I considered telling Charlie about the letter right then. Perhaps he would have advice. Our dear Suki has passed on, I had written thus far. Perhaps it is time for us to make amends . . . Only last week, my sister’s husband had sent word that Suki had passed on months ago, from the same condition I had. Her heart. There was no explanation for why he had waited so long to tell me. I was out here in the West, as forgotten as a ghost.
“I’ll fry us some steaks. Better take them out of the freezer.” Charlie hummed as he went into the bedroom and began putting away laundry.
“I cook tonight. Your
