Mary Waters - The Favorites

The three of them-Mrs. Kobayashi, Mrs. Rexford, and Sarah-had been sitting on the garden veranda one muggy afternoon, fanning themselves with paper uchiwa as cicadas droned in the maple branches overhead. Hearing the rapid crunch of gravel, they turned their heads to see Mrs. Nishimura hurrying past along the alley, her slender form flashing in and out of view through the slats in the wooden fence.

“A! Late for the bus again,” Mrs. Kobayashi said. “It’s her choir day.”

“Choir? Really!” Mrs. Rexford’s voice held the kindly geniality that accomplished people use when praising those with less skill. “Maa, good for her!”

“It’s with some other PTA mothers,” Mrs. Kobayashi said. “They’ve formed some kind of a group.” She leaned over and twisted off a dead leaf from a nearby fuchsia bush, placing it in the center of her lap to throw away later. “By the way, I’m thinking of frying up some gyoza for dinner. Or do you think it’s too hot?”

Sarah asked if her aunt was a good singer.

Her grandmother had considered this for a moment, gazing off into the distance. “I believe so,” she finally said, “but nothing outstanding, I think. It was always your mother they picked for the solos in school.”

Sarah now reached over and slipped her clean underclothes into the bag on her grandmother’s lap. “The Civic Auditorium, really? They let PTA choirs perform there?”

“PTA?” Now it was Mrs. Kobayashi’s turn to look blank. “What are you talking about…aaa, I see. No no, she stopped that choir years ago, when your cousins finished elementary school.” She seemed amused by Sarah’s confused expression. “You!” she chided. “Anta, it’s no wonder we’re at cross purposes all the time. Your information’s always outdated.”

Sarah suppressed a flash of resentment. But her grandmother was right; she lived too far away to be in the family loop.

“Your auntie’s in a real choir now.” Mrs. Kobayashi handed the bath bag over to Sarah and rose up from her floor cushion. “You’ll see.”

“I’m trying to remember,” said Sarah, “if I’ve ever heard her sing around the house…”

But her grandmother had gone away to another room.

She reappeared several minutes later, carrying a loaded tea tray. “I checked the clock, it’s still early,” she said. “There’s time for tea before you go.”

They settled into the kotatsu and chatted idly over a pot of tea and sugared black beans.

Their talk turned to the Izumis, who still lived far away to the south, where they held prominent positions in the religious community. They participated in various national conferences. Little Jun, now a teenager, was skipping college in order to devote his life to the church. The Izumis had a full life, for they had made many friends in the church.

Reflecting on all this, the two women shook their heads in silent wonder.

“We always thought it would blow over,” said Mrs. Kobayashi.

“I know.” But it made sense. For now her aunt had the loving family she had always wanted, with herself at its vital center.

Sarah had seen her aunt briefly during her last visit. That was the year of Mr. Kobayashi’s death, and Mrs. Izumi had come to pay respects. She brought with her one of those fragrant gift melons that were sold in their own box. Since she couldn’t pray at the funerary table, she sat at the dining room table and sipped cold wheat tea.

That was a busy afternoon. A stream of visitors had padded through the dining area on stockinged feet, bowing politely to Mrs. Izumi as they made their way to the parlor. Sarah kept her aunt company at the dining table. They said little. They listened to the miniature gong in the next room, to the hushed babble of voices as visitors exchanged greetings with the lady of the house. Sarah had wondered if her aunt felt any longing to join that group, to stand for one last time before the altar from which she had exiled herself.

During a lull, Sarah had placed her aunt’s melon on a dish and taken it into the parlor. But the table was already full, cluttered with orchids and fruits and pastries. She put the melon on the floor, on the other side of the table, where people’s feet wouldn’t strike it.

“Mama and Grandpa used to love those melons,” she told her aunt, going back into the dining room. “Auntie, you’re the only one who remembered.”

Her aunt had smiled at her, and the sweetness of that smile flooded Sarah’s heart with a great tenderness. It was her old childhood crush, refined over the years to something bittersweet. Mrs. Izumi had grown a bit stouter, but she was still pretty. She had achieved the settled, contented air of a matron, with nothing left of the old coquettish vivacity.

Sarah now asked, “Does Auntie Tama still wear her hair swept back in a French twist? The same way Mama did?”

“As far as I know. She still copies a lot of things from your mother. She looked up to her so much, you know. I think it went deep.” Mrs. Kobayashi shifted position under the kotatsu blanket. “This blanket’s so hot!” she said. “I’m turning down the heat switch.” In the same breath she added, “She wants me to come live with them.”

“Really!” Sarah thought her aunt had given up by now. But one never knew about people.

“I told her I’d think about it, but…”

The original plan had been for Mrs. Kobayashi to come live with the Rexfords when the time came. She and Mrs. Rexford had often talked of the things they would do together: the dishes they would cook, the garden they would tend. Having looked forward to this for so long, it must have been hard for Mrs. Kobayashi to imagine living with anyone else. It was reminiscent, in a way, of marrying for the second time when it was the other sibling she really wanted.

“Ne, Grandma, it’s not as if you need looking after. I mean, you’re still walking around wearing heels.”

“Exactly! I plan to stay independent as long as possible,” said Mrs. Kobayashi. “I overhear those women at the bathhouse, the ones who live with their children. And I can guess what’s going on with Granny Asaki, even though she puts on a public face…It’s a secure life, to be sure. But secure doesn’t mean easy. Human nature being what it is, it’s best to think twice before putting yourself at someone else’s mercy.”

Sarah liked this about her grandmother: the worldliness that surfaced at unexpected times.

“I suppose moving out there is the smart thing to do,” continued Mrs. Kobayashi. “It’s not as if there’s any other…” She gave a little sigh.

“But you want to stay near Auntie Masako, don’t you.”

“Yes. I think…I think she’d like me to stay. I mean, she’s never asked me outright. But I want to be near her anyway.”

“But Granny might not die for a long time. She’s really healthy. She’ll probably live to be a hundred.”

“Yes, I know.”

Sarah imagined the women’s future: chance meetings in the open-air market, brief stolen moments over a bit of grilled eel or liver. She had been here long enough to see that for all their new closeness, there was little change in their day-to-day routine.

“It doesn’t seem like enough,” Sarah said. “You hardly even see each other, or talk, or anything. It just doesn’t seem fair.”

“It’s not fair,” said Mrs. Kobayashi. “But it’s enough.”

“Oh, Grandma.” Sarah felt a great sadness. “Why can’t you spend more time together? Those old boundaries can’t possibly matter now. You’re her mother.”

“I gave Granny-san my word. After she’s gone-”

“But what if you die first?” Sarah’s voice rose in spite of herself. “Granny’s had all those good years. You and Auntie didn’t have any. It’s not right.”