How to Be an American Housewife Read Online Free PDF Page A

in which we lost.
    Time did not make our way smoother. When Mike was twelve and playing Little League in Oakland, all the mothers had to make treats for their end-of-season party. Mike had told me about it as I sat on the bleachers watching the game, by myself, on the top row. “It’s tomorrow,” he said, throwing the ball into his mitt and not looking at me.
    The other mothers sat a few rows down or clumped in groups of two or three. They wore button-down shirts in pastel colors and capri pants, like a secret uniform. “Why they no tell me?” I asked.
    He shrugged and asked for snack money. I gave him a quarter and moved two benches down to Jackie, the team mother. Jackie had dark hair and a flip just like Jackie O, whom she resembled. She wore a giant floppy straw hat.
    Jackie smiled politely and I back at her. “Hi, Shoko, how are you?”
    “Very well, thank you.” I used my softest, most pleasant voice. “Jackie. I bring popacor-nu barus to party.”
    “What’s that?” Jackie said, not moving her lips from the smile.
    “Popacor-nu barus.”
    She blinked. “I’m sorry. One more time?”
    “Popacor-nu. Barus.” I made the shape with my hands.
    Jackie was silent, her head cocked to the side, the smile fading. The other mothers watched. Did they not understand, either?
    Mike had come back and was standing in the dirt by the bleachers, watching. “It’s popcorn balls!” he shouted. “What the hell is so hard to understand? You people are stupid. This team is stupid.” He threw his hat down.
    I never went to another game. But neither did I cry about it. Mike did not, either, or if he did, he did not let us know.
    I sorrowed for Mike. He had not changed much from the little boy on the front stoop. Less fussy, yes. But still easily broken. No one had ever been able to understand him. Always, he was moody, a loner, smart as a whip but lazy. Often he was in his own world, amusing himself. Today, Charlie said Mike might have been called “mildly autistic,” but not when he was growing up. Back then, he was just different, and we had done the best we could.
    I only hoped that Charlie would let Mike keep staying here after I was gone. He had nowhere else to go.
     
     
    CHARLIE CAME DOWN THE HALL, a mug of Sanka in his hands.“You want to have spaghetti tonight?”
    “No, no,” I murmured. “We out of noodle.” I considered telling Charlie about the letter right then. Perhaps he would have advice. Our dear Suki has passed on, I had written thus far. Perhaps it is time for us to make amends . . . Only last week, my sister’s husband had sent word that Suki had passed on months ago, from the same condition I had. Her heart. There was no explanation for why he had waited so long to tell me. I was out here in the West, as forgotten as a ghost.
    “I’ll fry us some steaks. Better take them out of the freezer.” Charlie hummed as he went into the bedroom and began putting away laundry.
    “I cook tonight. Your steak dry.”
    He laughed. “I’ll make yours bloody.” He folded and sang.
    Charlie had taken over most of the cooking. On days when I was tired, he pan-fried meat and made rice with microwaved frozen vegetables. Nothing like what I could make. I was just glad to have someone cook for me. Otherwise, we’d be eating cold cereal.
    I hadn’t always been a good cook. I had made spaghetti for Charlie for the first time in 1955, in that Norfolk house.
    The spaghetti recipe was in the new American cookbook that Charlie gave me, How to Be an American Housewife. Written in Japanese and in English, it also taught the American way of housekeeping. I had never imagined that I would need such a book, since my mother and my high school had prepared me for being an excellent wife, but I had to admit, American ways were different. I took the book very seriously and made the spaghetti exactly as it said.
    The spaghetti recipe had worked. I cooked all day long, using tomatoes I grew in our little garden. The