Mary Waters - The Favorites

“Good afternoon!” Sarah called out.

Her aunt looked up with a welcoming smile, then came to meet her at the door. The kitchen was laced with the sweet, meaty smell of shiitake mushrooms cooked in soy sauce, and the tang of vinegared rice. They must have had chirashizushi for lunch, Sarah thought. “How are you, Auntie,” she said, presenting the newspaper cone with both hands. “They sent you these.”

“Maa, how lovely!” Mrs. Nishimura reached for the flowers with hands still covered in wet rubber gloves. “How well they’re growing this year!” She held the bouquet away from her at arm’s length, as if planning an ikebana arrangement in her mind. Her face, alight with pleasure and gratitude, filled Sarah with sudden shame.

Ever since the cream puff incident had ensured her place in her mother and grandmother’s inner circle, she was aware of taking her aunt’s rightful place.

All through her childhood Sarah had believed adults were immune to certain types of pain, just as lobsters (according to her grandmother) were incapable of feeling boiling water. That was because adults had perspective. They understood why things had to happen; they didn’t take it personally the way children did. This belief had consoled her when she fought with her mother. Regarding her aunt’s adoption, she had assumed that a grown woman would be mature enough to understand the situation.

But recently she had begun to question this. She sometimes imagined herself as her aunt, living just a few houses away and watching her real mother dote on the daughter she had chosen to keep. How would she feel, living so close but unable to rummage for sticky-bean cakes in the Kobayashis’ cupboard, or even drop by unannounced for a cup of tea? She didn’t think she could bear it. It was a wonder that her aunt had, all these years. It was a wonder that everyone involved could go about their daily lives with such equanimity.

All of this stirred within her as she watched her aunt’s glowing face. “Tell them I said thank you!” Mrs. Nishimura was saying.

Sarah felt oddly like crying. “I have to go,” she mumbled. It was a relief to turn away. As she hurried past the hydrangea bushes she remembered seeing her own mother rush off this way after delivering something to the Asaki house. For the first time, she understood the contrition behind the two women’s painstaking complicity. For their happiness, like hers, had come at the cost of someone else.

“What a lovely yuzu arrangement!” praised Mrs. Asaki. She stood before the altar, ready to pray. Sarah sat at the low table and watched her.

Reaching into her clutch purse, the old woman drew out a set of mahogany prayer beads with purple tassels. She also drew out a formal monetary envelope, which she placed on the altar. Her envelopes always contained several crisp ten-thousand-yen bills.

Mrs. Asaki closed her eyes. Reciting rapidly under her breath, she manipulated the beads with deft fingers. Then, switching back instantly from the ethereal to the earthly, she smiled down at Sarah.

“A little shopping for you and your mama.” She nodded toward the envelope with twinkling eyes.

Mrs. Kobayashi and Mrs. Rexford entered the room with trays of tea and refreshments. “Won’t you stay, Granny?” they asked. Mrs. Asaki promptly took a seat at the low table.

Despite their private resentments toward the old woman, Mrs. Kobayashi and Mrs. Rexford seemed to genuinely enjoy these visits. There was, after all, a certain kinship in the women’s extroverted personalities. With Mrs. Nishimura out of the picture, they could all relax and gossip under the guise of religious duty. In no time at all, they were shrieking with laughter.

At one point the talk turned to Mr. Kobayashi. Mrs. Asaki took mischievous delight in exposing her little brother’s childhood trials.

“Some older boys across the creek called him over to play,” she told them. “So he trudged over the bridge, and they boinked him on the head. He came running back, crying. But then they called out their apologies and invited him over again. ‘Kenji, don’t go!’ I told him. But no, he trudged over that bridge yet again-” The old woman did such a good imitation of a little boy’s eager expression that they all burst into laughter. “And he got boinked yet again!”

Sarah, who had just come back from seeing her aunt, was annoyed to see them all having such a good time. They had wronged Aunt Masako. They had no right to be laughing and having so much fun.

Still laughing, the women turned back to their plates. Today was so hot they were eating chilled tofu. “This sauce is divine!” said Mrs. Asaki. “What is it? I can taste the citron zest…and…”

“Miso, and rice wine, and ground-up sesame seeds,” supplied Mrs. Rexford. “By the way, we picked some extra citrons for you to take home.”

A reflective mood fell over them.

“That Kenji…” Mrs. Asaki shook her head indulgently. “All he ever did was play around and dabble in things, right up till he got drafted to Manchuria. We thought he’d never settle down.”

“And then he turned out to be so good at art! Who would have thought?” said Mrs. Kobayashi.

“Now, his little brother,” said Mrs. Asaki, “he was successful from the start. Shoehei was the one people noticed.” Her voice was hushed; Shohei had been her favorite brother.

Mrs. Rexford looked pleased. Mrs. Kobayashi lowered her gaze modestly. It was not her place to say such things, but she was perfectly willing to hear it from her sister-in-law’s lips.

“Shohei was so smart,” Mrs. Asaki told Sarah, “so witty. Always at the head of his class. They picked him for the executive training program when he was only-what? Twenty-five?”

Mrs. Kobayashi and Mrs. Rexford, both smiling, nodded.

Mrs. Asaki grew expansive in her generosity. “It was entirely fitting,” she said, “that the first hieroglyph in his name-sho-stood for rectitude and integrity.”

Sarah recalled old photographs she had seen. Shohei was tall and handsome. Her step-grandfather, Kenji, was handsome too, but much shorter.

A girlish sparkle appeared in Mrs. Asaki’s eyes. “Your grandpa,” she told Sarah, gesturing vaguely toward the other end of the house where Mr. Kobayashi was tap-tapping away in his workshop, “had a secret crush on your grandma for years. But she only had eyes for Shohei.”

Sarah happened to know-she had overheard her parents-that marrying the second Mr. Kobayashi had not been her grandmother’s wish. She had been pressured into it, quite forcefully, by Mrs. Asaki herself.

Sarah had never seen the tough side of Granny; her great-aunt was unfailingly cheerful and charming. But she did remember that when Momoko and Yashiko were small, Mrs. Asaki used to punish them by touching a lit stick of prayer incense to the offending part of their bodies: the hand, if hitting had been the offense; the tongue, if one of them had talked back. It was the old-fashioned method from the country. Momoko had claimed airily that it didn’t hurt at all. “You can’t even see the mark,” she said. But the very idea had made Sarah dizzy with terror.

That night at bedtime, she broached this confusion to her mother.

“You know about uchi versus soto, right?” Mrs. Rexford said.

Uchi versus soto: inner circle versus outer circle. Daytime television was full of family dramas based on this concept. Uchi meant the few allies in whom a woman could place absolute trust. Soto was everyone else-social acquaintances, in-laws, sometimes one’s own children-around whom it was best to remain vigilant.

“Smart women know who’s inside and who’s outside,” Mrs. Rexford said. “Wishy-washy women get confused and make poor decisions.”