the light pouring in from behind them, I couldn’t make out the expressions on their faces. My father wanted to get me out of bed for a scolding, but Mother stopped him.
“She wanted to let her little sister freeze to death,” he complained.
“No, she didn’t. Besides, nothing happened.”
“Well, I want to know why she’d do such a thing.”
“She feels inferior to her sister, that’s all,” my mother argued, her voice low. Listening to what she said, I wondered why I’d been born to such a family, and I couldn’t stop myself from crying.
You wonder why I didn’t refute my mother’s claim, don’t you? But maybe I couldn’t deny feeling inferior. I didn’t understand my feelings at the time. And maybe I didn’t want to admit that I truly hated Yuriko. I mean, she was my little sister; wasn’t I supposed to love her? For so long I had been in the viselike grip of this sense of dutya sense telling me that I was indeed morally obliged to love her.
And then the spectacle I beheld in the bath that night and again at the party liberated me from the pressure I had been feeling. I couldn’t put up with it any longer. I just had to say what I felt.
The next morning there was no sign of Yuriko. Mother was downstairs 2 2
G R O T E S Q U E
pouring kerosene in the stove, a sour look on her face. My father was sitting at the breakfast table, but when he saw me approach he stood up to meet me, his breath reeking of coffee.
“Did you tell your sister, T hope you die’?”
When I didn’t answer immediately he slapped me hard across the face with his thick palm. The smacking sound the slap made was so sharp it made my ears burn. My cheek stung with pain. I covered my face with both hands to ward off future blows, but I’d fully expected this kind of reaction. He’d been hitting me ever since I was little. First he would beat me and then he’d unleash a torrent of verbal abuse. It was often severe enough to require medical treatment.
“Reflect on your sins!” he ordered.
Whenever my father chastised Mother, Yuriko, or me, he always ordered us to reflect on our sins. He didn’t really believe in apologies.
At kindergarten I’d learned that when you did something wrong, you said, “I’m sorry.” And then the aggrieved party would answer, “That’s all right.” But this was never the way it worked at my house. Those words didn’t even exist for us, so punishment always escalated into a major production.
Yuriko looked creepyso why the hell should I be the one “reflecting on my sins”? I suppose my indignation showed on my face, because my father slapped me again with all his might. From the corner of my eye I glimpsed my mother’s pinched profile as I toppled to the floor. She didn’t try to come to my defense. Instead, she pretended to concentrate on pouring the kerosene into the stove so as not to spill a drop. I scrambled to my feet, fled upstairs, and locked myself in my room.
Later that afternoon a deathly silence stole over the house. It seemed that my father had gone out somewhere, so I tiptoed out of my room. I didn’t see Mother. Taking advantage of the moment, I slipped into the kitchen and ate the leftover rice right out of the container, scooping it into my mouth with my fingers. I took the orange juice out of the refrigerator and drained the carton. Then I found the pot with the bigos that had been left over from yesterday’s lunch. The fat from the meat had solidified on the surface in white gobs. I spit into the pot. My orangejuice-laced spit clung to the shreds of overcooked cabbage. I was pleased. My father especially liked his bigos with overcooked cabbage.
I looked up when I heard the sound of the front door opening. Yuriko had come back. She was wearing the same jacket she’d worn last night 2 3
N A T S U O K I R I NO
and a white mohair cap I’d never seen, which had to be one of Masami’s.
It was a little large for her and came down low on her forehead,
“She wanted to let her little sister freeze to death,” he complained.
“No, she didn’t. Besides, nothing happened.”
“Well, I want to know why she’d do such a thing.”
“She feels inferior to her sister, that’s all,” my mother argued, her voice low. Listening to what she said, I wondered why I’d been born to such a family, and I couldn’t stop myself from crying.
You wonder why I didn’t refute my mother’s claim, don’t you? But maybe I couldn’t deny feeling inferior. I didn’t understand my feelings at the time. And maybe I didn’t want to admit that I truly hated Yuriko. I mean, she was my little sister; wasn’t I supposed to love her? For so long I had been in the viselike grip of this sense of dutya sense telling me that I was indeed morally obliged to love her.
And then the spectacle I beheld in the bath that night and again at the party liberated me from the pressure I had been feeling. I couldn’t put up with it any longer. I just had to say what I felt.
The next morning there was no sign of Yuriko. Mother was downstairs 2 2
G R O T E S Q U E
pouring kerosene in the stove, a sour look on her face. My father was sitting at the breakfast table, but when he saw me approach he stood up to meet me, his breath reeking of coffee.
“Did you tell your sister, T hope you die’?”
When I didn’t answer immediately he slapped me hard across the face with his thick palm. The smacking sound the slap made was so sharp it made my ears burn. My cheek stung with pain. I covered my face with both hands to ward off future blows, but I’d fully expected this kind of reaction. He’d been hitting me ever since I was little. First he would beat me and then he’d unleash a torrent of verbal abuse. It was often severe enough to require medical treatment.
“Reflect on your sins!” he ordered.
Whenever my father chastised Mother, Yuriko, or me, he always ordered us to reflect on our sins. He didn’t really believe in apologies.
At kindergarten I’d learned that when you did something wrong, you said, “I’m sorry.” And then the aggrieved party would answer, “That’s all right.” But this was never the way it worked at my house. Those words didn’t even exist for us, so punishment always escalated into a major production.
Yuriko looked creepyso why the hell should I be the one “reflecting on my sins”? I suppose my indignation showed on my face, because my father slapped me again with all his might. From the corner of my eye I glimpsed my mother’s pinched profile as I toppled to the floor. She didn’t try to come to my defense. Instead, she pretended to concentrate on pouring the kerosene into the stove so as not to spill a drop. I scrambled to my feet, fled upstairs, and locked myself in my room.
Later that afternoon a deathly silence stole over the house. It seemed that my father had gone out somewhere, so I tiptoed out of my room. I didn’t see Mother. Taking advantage of the moment, I slipped into the kitchen and ate the leftover rice right out of the container, scooping it into my mouth with my fingers. I took the orange juice out of the refrigerator and drained the carton. Then I found the pot with the bigos that had been left over from yesterday’s lunch. The fat from the meat had solidified on the surface in white gobs. I spit into the pot. My orangejuice-laced spit clung to the shreds of overcooked cabbage. I was pleased. My father especially liked his bigos with overcooked cabbage.
I looked up when I heard the sound of the front door opening. Yuriko had come back. She was wearing the same jacket she’d worn last night 2 3
N A T S U O K I R I NO
and a white mohair cap I’d never seen, which had to be one of Masami’s.
It was a little large for her and came down low on her forehead,
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