from her mother. It was more of an almanac, really, full of symbols Yumiko did not understand. A few dates stood out, printed in burgundy; these her mother had taken care to circle with her own thick red marker. Auspicious days, meant for the events that indicated progress: weddings, job interviews, moves. Even, according to her mother, conception. The calendar had not been turned from its second month.
She finally found the landlord’s number between pages of the CoCo Curry menu. Miura-san wasn’t phased by her complaint; the building was old, like all the others in Tainohama, and theirs wasn’t the first toilet problem.
“Thank you,” she said, bowing slightly as she hung up. Lou mimicked her high-pitched formal Japanese and bowed at her from across the room. She smiled, to encourage good humor on his part. But she kept the smile closelipped; she’d noticed lately that big smiles pulled at herskin in such a way that her eyes almost disappeared. Her eyes were her best feature, the color of weak barley tea, and strikingly light for a Japanese. When they’d first met, Lou had asked if she could really see out of them.
“A worker can come tomorrow to fix it,” she said. “It might take a couple of days.”
“I hope it’s not longer than that. I can only piss out the window for so long.”
“If you did, Kobayashi-san probably won’t notice,” Yumiko said. No matter what the weather, the old woman who lived below them never stepped into her garden without the protection of an umbrella.
But Lou didn’t laugh. She saw him catch sight of the exposed calendar, its red circles like imploring eyes. She imagined its voice, a whisper: Don’t you want to know what the lucky days are this month? Yumiko looked out the window, where the sun was setting behind a network of rooftop antennas. She would not be the one to turn all those pages at once, pinching the months between her fingertips like food gone bad. She especially didn’t want to see this, the eighth month, charted out. It marked their two-year wedding anniversary, which they’d celebrated by working late, and the weeklong Obon holiday that began tomorrow, when dead family members were believed to visit the land of the living.
They both had the week off, she from classes at the ceramics studio and he from teaching English, and Yumiko wondered how they would fill the time. Lou had balked at visiting her mom and dad. “All they’ll talk about,” he’d said, “is when we’re going to wave the magic baby wandand turn them into grandparents. Let’s focus on us—on our family—this year.”
She stared out the window into the mess of electrical wires that sliced up the horizon. There would be a baby soon, she reasoned. He or she was just waiting for the right time to come. Lou’s tests had come back showing no problems.
Lou whistled a depressing four-note melody.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said absently, gathering the scattered menus. He piled them all on top of the calendar, the tendon along his forearm popping out as he strained to pierce the clutter with a tack.
“I have to get to class,” he said.
“How does gyoza sound for dinner?” It was a joke; the fried dumplings were the only thing she ever cooked, and almost always in the middle of the night.
He smiled absently. “Do you think you’ll ever feel like learning to cook?”
She had never heard him say this. He knew she hated planning meals and grocery shopping, and he felt the same way. They got along fine on takeout. “I don’t know,” she said.
“It’s just that we can’t eat out forever, it’s not that healthy, and since you only work part-time... you know, Mrs. Yoshida teaches a free class in traditional Japanese cooking at the International Center on Sundays.”
“I—I’ll think about it.” How embarrassing, she thought. She would be the only Japanese student in the class!
He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “ Mata, ne. Love you.”
“Say hi to the
She finally found the landlord’s number between pages of the CoCo Curry menu. Miura-san wasn’t phased by her complaint; the building was old, like all the others in Tainohama, and theirs wasn’t the first toilet problem.
“Thank you,” she said, bowing slightly as she hung up. Lou mimicked her high-pitched formal Japanese and bowed at her from across the room. She smiled, to encourage good humor on his part. But she kept the smile closelipped; she’d noticed lately that big smiles pulled at herskin in such a way that her eyes almost disappeared. Her eyes were her best feature, the color of weak barley tea, and strikingly light for a Japanese. When they’d first met, Lou had asked if she could really see out of them.
“A worker can come tomorrow to fix it,” she said. “It might take a couple of days.”
“I hope it’s not longer than that. I can only piss out the window for so long.”
“If you did, Kobayashi-san probably won’t notice,” Yumiko said. No matter what the weather, the old woman who lived below them never stepped into her garden without the protection of an umbrella.
But Lou didn’t laugh. She saw him catch sight of the exposed calendar, its red circles like imploring eyes. She imagined its voice, a whisper: Don’t you want to know what the lucky days are this month? Yumiko looked out the window, where the sun was setting behind a network of rooftop antennas. She would not be the one to turn all those pages at once, pinching the months between her fingertips like food gone bad. She especially didn’t want to see this, the eighth month, charted out. It marked their two-year wedding anniversary, which they’d celebrated by working late, and the weeklong Obon holiday that began tomorrow, when dead family members were believed to visit the land of the living.
They both had the week off, she from classes at the ceramics studio and he from teaching English, and Yumiko wondered how they would fill the time. Lou had balked at visiting her mom and dad. “All they’ll talk about,” he’d said, “is when we’re going to wave the magic baby wandand turn them into grandparents. Let’s focus on us—on our family—this year.”
She stared out the window into the mess of electrical wires that sliced up the horizon. There would be a baby soon, she reasoned. He or she was just waiting for the right time to come. Lou’s tests had come back showing no problems.
Lou whistled a depressing four-note melody.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said absently, gathering the scattered menus. He piled them all on top of the calendar, the tendon along his forearm popping out as he strained to pierce the clutter with a tack.
“I have to get to class,” he said.
“How does gyoza sound for dinner?” It was a joke; the fried dumplings were the only thing she ever cooked, and almost always in the middle of the night.
He smiled absently. “Do you think you’ll ever feel like learning to cook?”
She had never heard him say this. He knew she hated planning meals and grocery shopping, and he felt the same way. They got along fine on takeout. “I don’t know,” she said.
“It’s just that we can’t eat out forever, it’s not that healthy, and since you only work part-time... you know, Mrs. Yoshida teaches a free class in traditional Japanese cooking at the International Center on Sundays.”
“I—I’ll think about it.” How embarrassing, she thought. She would be the only Japanese student in the class!
He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “ Mata, ne. Love you.”
“Say hi to the
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