How to Be an American Housewife by Margaret Dilloway Page B

dusty mahogany shelves. I picked one out, flipping through its pages, but I couldn’t read English. A cloud of dust wafted up and I sneezed.
    “Bless you,” said a voice from behind me. I turned to look. A man in a casual brown naval dress uniform stood there. It was the first time I’d seen an American close-up. He looked a bit younger than forty, his hair just graying at the temples. He had soft brown eyes and a dimple in his chin, and was much taller than Japanese men. “How do you do?” he said, extending his hand to me and shaking it firmly. I smiled at him. He switched into Japanese. “I’m Captain Leonard. But you can call me Kyle.”
    The boss! I bowed my head, saying in Japanese, “My apologies, I’m sorry to disturb you.”
    He wouldn’t let go of my hand. With his free one, he lifted my face. “You’re very beautiful, with a wonderful voice,” he said, and touched my cheek with the side of his hand. My heart beat fast. I blushed. “You know, you look like Machiko Kyo, the actress from Rashomon . You shouldn’t be a maid.” He gestured to a chair. “Sit down, won’t you?”
    People had told me I looked like her. I took it as a compliment, though my father said I was far more beautiful than she. I sat. The chair was wood and soft leather tacked on with brass studs. I crossed my ankles and folded my hands around the dust cloth. My hands were cracked and work-worn; I supposed Machiko Kyo didn’t have hands like mine. But maybe Captain Leonard hadn’t seen them.
    He sat on the edge of his desk, directly in front of me. “What’s your name?”
    “Shoko.”
    “Well, Shoko,” he said, “I think I might have other plans for you.”
    I perked up. Maybe he needed a translator. Or a secretary. My brain flew. “Like what?” Then I caught myself. “Forgive me.”
    He laughed in his smooth baritone. “Maybe you can be my personal maid. Wakarimasu ka? ” Understand?
    I was confused for a second. I thought men had butlers, not ladies’ maids. Then I saw how he was looking at me, his pupils so big they obscured the color of his eyes, and comprehended. I stood. “I should get back to work.”
    He grabbed my arm and pressed me against him. “You really are lovely,” he said.
    I nudged him away. My father was always warning me against wearing clingy sweaters with those bullet bras. But I was wearing a maid’s uniform, the most unflattering thing anyone could wear. This attention wasn’t my fault.
    “Shoko-san,” he said, bowing his head. “Forgive me. I only want to be your friend. Surely you don’t want to ruin your hands with this work. You’re not meant for it.” He put his arm around my waist, running his other hand over my back up to my dress’s zipper.
    “Stop,” I said in English, shoving him against his bookcase, leather books clattering down. I bent my knees and got ready to punch him in the throat, like Taro had taught me.
    He made a step toward me again, arms out to grab, but there was a sound of branches scraping the window. We both looked.
    Outside was the dirt-streaked face of the gardener, my countryman come to save me, face shaded by a big straw hat. He raised one hand in greeting. “Sir!” he called out in perfect, unaccented English. “Where do you want these roses you ordered for your wife?”
    “In the flower garden, of course.” The captain went to the window and closed the curtains over the gardener’s face. I ran to the kitchen.
    “Shigemi! You’ll never guess what happened!”
    Shigemi turned from the sink, where she was peeling potatoes. “Ah, I know.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “You’re the fourth maid this year.”
    “Why didn’t you warn me?” I could have kicked her. “I’m calling the police.”
    “They won’t do a thing.” She shrugged, tucking back a stray tendril of black hair. Her plump cheeks were flushed. “It’s not so bad. I’d do it if he wanted me. He buys nice clothes, gives you a bigger allowance than the