The Salaryman's Wife(49)

“I am ashamed to say I have never seen my great-niece, but I imagine she must be very similar to you. You are also a konketsujin?”

“Mmm. I grew up in the United States,” I said, thinking she’d probably caught my slight accent.

“You grew up like a princess, then.” Mrs. Ozawa gave a brief, tinny-sounding laugh. “No trouble with the neighbors. For Harumi, who was Setsuko’s mother, it was very hard. After the war, when Japanese women delivered half-American babies, they were treated like refuse. The smart ones managed to get their sailors to take them to America.”

“What do you mean?”

“Harumi was married to my brother Ryu, and they had Setsuko while living with our family. Ryu passed away in the early 1950s—old war injuries, you know. After he was gone, it was very hard for our family. And there was so little food…Harumi and Setsuko were considered a burden.”

“I suppose Harumi worked to help your family?” I asked, feeling sorry for the widowed, beleaguered daughter-in-law.

“Yes, the poor woman went to work near the American navy base in Yokosuka. She shined sailors’ shoes, but my parents thought there was more to it.” She lowered her voice and said, “Harumi became pregnant. It was unmistakable after a while, so she left the household.”

“You mean she was cast out?” I was horrified.

“Yes, because they knew it was an American sailor after the birth of their daughter, Keiko. Unbelievably, the American stayed with her. He could not marry her, but he set her up in a small house which had, of all things, a washing machine!”

“Did Setsuko’s mother live forever after with this man? Why isn’t he here?”

“He was shipped back to the United States after two years. Harumi sold me her washing machine because she could not keep the house, and she returned to shine shoes near the base again. The last time I saw her, she had both Setsuko and Keiko sleeping in a cardboard box at her side.”

So the woman I’d thought was born privileged had once slept under cardboard just like the vagrants in my neighborhood. It was unfathomable.

“I continued visiting from time to time to bring old clothes and so on. But they were growing up in a terrible environment, it killed Harumi and Keiko both!”

“How?” I nearly jumped on her.

“Harumi was killed by a drunk American driving on the wrong side of the road. I was very worried about the daughters, but by then I had married and was living with my husband’s family, so I could not take care of the girls. Harumi had a friend who raised them in Yokosuka.”

“How did Setsuko’s sister, Keiko, die?” I wanted to stay on track.

“Setsuko told me that in her teens, Keiko became very wild. She gave birth to Mariko outside of marriage and spent her time in the bars taking drugs with the American sailors. One time she had a bad reaction. She jumped off a building, and that was it.”

“And Keiko’s little daughter Mariko?” This was one of the saddest stories I’d ever heard.

“Setsuko made sure she was taken care of, and she is now working at a bank…quite a suitable place for a young lady. Of course. I haven’t seen her. I would like to, now that she is the only one left.”

“Which bank?”

“I don’t know exactly, but it is a good one in Tokyo.” Mrs. Ozawa paused. “The last time we met, Setsuko asked me to consider leaving some inheritance for Mariko. She said the Ozawa family’s pattern of casting off women must be broken. At the time, I said to her, dear niece, I am sympathetic, but the young woman in question is not any kind of blood relation.” She blinked back tears. “I was wrong. Setsuko walked out on me when I told her I wouldn’t help Mariko. I never heard from her again.”

In the space of this conversation, my picture of Setsuko Nakamura had altered. If Mariko really existed—I reminded myself that Mrs. Ozawa had never seen her, and Mariko’s mother, Keiko, was conveniently dead—Setsuko had tried to do a great thing for her.

“I am not feeling so well. I would like some more sake…” Mrs. Ozawa was struggling to stand. I helped her up and commandeered her out the room, thinking more sake was probably not a good idea for a depressed woman who weighed less than ninety pounds. I would have to watch over her. Hearing brisk steps coming toward us, I looked up and saw Mr. Nakamura.

“What is it?” Mrs. Ozawa asked, not understanding why I’d stopped moving.

“Please go ahead, Mrs. Ozawa. I’ll meet you,” I said, going into a deep bow and mumbling the customary funeral greeting Hikari had told me would be correct should I come face to face with the impossible.