The Favorites_ A Novel Part 3

In her own youth, Yoko Kobayas.h.i.+ had taken quiet pride in standing out from the ma.s.ses. She sported a sleek, traditionally cut bob while other young women were frazzling their hair with Western-style permanent waves. Having no shortage of male admirers, she considered herself exempt from girlish affectations such as covering her mouth when she laughed. As a badge of distinction, she liked to wear something unusual but not ostentatious-a man's m.u.f.fler, or an outre piece of jewelry designed by her stepfather-catching in people's eyes that flash of respect. Years later in Fielder's b.u.t.te, she took a perverse pleasure in wielding her parasol with poise as she walked past the apartment pool where American women slathered in baby oil lay baking their bodies in halter tops and short jean cutoffs. Although these American eyes met hers with curiosity, condescension, or blank dismissal, there was a fleeting instant when they a.s.sessed her neckline and slender figure with the universal glint of female rivalry. She knew they noticed her skin, which was exceptionally smooth, with a porcelain sheen that had attracted attention all her life.

Where, then, did her daughter get her timidity?

Not from her husband. John Rexford was fifty-seven, his wife's senior by eighteen years. Formerly a physicist, he had taken early retirement in order to "read and think." He admitted this humbly, almost sheepishly. Mrs. Rexford admired his modesty. She bragged to Sarah on his behalf, explaining in detail all she knew of his professional accomplishments, of his wide range of knowledge and interests.

But the mere fact of her husband's modesty wasn't what held her interest. It was what she sensed behind it: a genuine lack of need for public approval. Mrs. Rexford, who secretly struggled to reconcile what she had been with what she was now, envied his strength of mind. Her husband, like her, had tossed away the crutch of social position. But unlike her, he didn't seem to feel its loss. It helped, of course, that he was living in his native country. But even when they were living in j.a.pan, he had stayed remarkably, transcendently unchanged. "You're hardly human!" she had cried during one of their rare fights. She was constantly trying, and failing, to emulate her husband. Her devotion to him was fueled by this enormous respect.

And yet Mr. Rexford was charming to the townsfolk, full of dry wit and a seasoned grace of manner. (Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ had once remarked that he put her in mind of those gentlemen in Sherlock Holmes movies. Having grown up near the cosmopolitan port of Kobe, she had always been something of an Anglophile.) Mrs. Rexford was fascinated by this social side of him, this flashback from a former life that excluded her.

Fielder's b.u.t.te was a small logging town, hours away from any major city. It was an ideal place for living within the tight budget imposed by Mr. Rexford's early retirement. Mrs. Rexford enjoyed the creative challenge of making do within monetary limits. Sometimes, though, she felt a keen loss for their social ident.i.ties, not just her own but her husband's too. But in its place was a life more free and elemental than any she had ever known. It was no coincidence they both loved Th.o.r.eau's Walden. Walden.

When Sarah was small and they still lived in the Kyoto hills, Mrs. Rexford had tried to instill in her child something of this mental strength. "Stand up tall," she said. "Lift up your chin...like I taught you, like this. Then the boys won't bully you." She had even cut her daughter's hair short, striving for a jaunty, non-vulnerable look. But it was all in vain. Even after they moved to America, Sarah said things like, "Mother, I can't wear those pants. They're not what the other girls are wearing." Or, "Why can't we eat dinner at Burger King? The other families are all doing it."

It wasn't that Mrs. Rexford couldn't sympathize. She, too, remembered the shame of not fitting in. Once in middle school, some girls in her cla.s.s had made a snide remark about her wearing the same sweater year after year. It was true: each summer, Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ would unravel the yarn and reknit it, adding new stripes in different-colored yarn to accommodate her daughter's growing body. Hearing the girls' words, young Yoko had felt a deep stab of humiliation. She had resolved, on the spot, to demand a new sweater the minute she got home.

But when she remembered her mother knitting late into the night, sweating in the summer humidity, so lovingly and carefully holding the sweater up against Yoko's chest for measurements, a surge of pity and then fury had made her lift her eyes to those girls and say, with a careless smile, "Saa-what can I say? Some mothers go to a lot of trouble for their children. That's how you know if they really love you."

"I guess our mothers show love in different ways," sneered one girl.

"Yes, I've noticed that," said Yoko. "I've noticed who brings the fewest side dishes in her lunch box. I've noticed whose mother isn't isn't at the Temple of Wisdom, praying for her child, the evening before an exam. So when certain people talk big, they're not fooling at the Temple of Wisdom, praying for her child, the evening before an exam. So when certain people talk big, they're not fooling me. me." And her knowing smirk had brought a flicker of anxiety to the aggressor's eyes.

Why couldn't Sarah, just once, stand up for her her like that? like that?

Mrs. Rexford felt a keen, wretched misery. Her daughter did not love her the way she loved her own mother. Mrs. Rexford had doted on Sarah with the same pa.s.sion and focus that her own mother had lavished on her, but the results, like everything else she tried in America, had come out slightly skewed. "Can't you think for yourself?" she would snap at her daughter. "Is everyone worth imitating except your own mother?" And that was how their fighting would begin.

chapter 9.

The open-air market was at the height of activity. As usual on a Monday, housewives were out in full force. Parked bicycles cluttered the sidewalks, forcing the shoppers out into the street, where they wove in and out among the slow-moving cars. A small crowd was stooped over the fish market display. Now that the rainy season had pa.s.sed, dispelling worries about food poisoning and mold, a large selection of raw fish had been set out on crushed ice. Thin wooden tablets, stuck upright into the ice, displayed prices written in black brushstrokes. On the pavement stood a row of blue plastic buckets, in which live fish moved in slow circles. open-air market was at the height of activity. As usual on a Monday, housewives were out in full force. Parked bicycles cluttered the sidewalks, forcing the shoppers out into the street, where they wove in and out among the slow-moving cars. A small crowd was stooped over the fish market display. Now that the rainy season had pa.s.sed, dispelling worries about food poisoning and mold, a large selection of raw fish had been set out on crushed ice. Thin wooden tablets, stuck upright into the ice, displayed prices written in black brushstrokes. On the pavement stood a row of blue plastic buckets, in which live fish moved in slow circles.

"Ladies!" called a middle-aged fishmonger from behind the counter, his eyes locked on the mackerel he was speedily filleting. "Haai-welcome! How about some nice chilled sas.h.i.+mi slices? Take a little home for lunch!" He cast his voice out over the street in controlled, far-reaching arcs of sound, as a fisherman flings out his nets. Its reverberation reminded Sarah of the So-Zen priests who came chanting each morning.

A young man working beside him, probably his son, chimed in. "Baby octopus! c.o.c.kles for clear soup! Everything fresh fresh fres.h.!.+" His energetic bellowing made up in volume what it lacked of his father's practiced resonance. At the far end of the counter, a woman in a white frilled ap.r.o.n stood over an open grill of eel fillets, using two battered cardboard uchiwa uchiwa to fan the fragrant smoke out toward prospective buyers. The provocative aroma of glazed soy sauce and sugar hung in the air and made Sarah's mouth water, even though she had just eaten breakfast. to fan the fragrant smoke out toward prospective buyers. The provocative aroma of glazed soy sauce and sugar hung in the air and made Sarah's mouth water, even though she had just eaten breakfast.

The housewives succeeded each other with quick, efficient footsteps that were at odds with their peaceful expressions. Mrs. Rexford wove through the crowd with nimble expertise, not bothering to look back. Sarah lurched after her mother, clutching her wicker basket and string bag and trying to avoid the sharp points of the women's parasols.

The produce booths were crowded too. Sarah's mother and grandmother usually made her wait on the sidewalk while they darted in to make fast, efficient transactions. Huge bundles of freshly picked edamame boughs were piled high on tables, the hairy pods still attached to the branches. Small green yuzu, or citrons, were in season but expensive. All booths featured carrots that were bright red instead of orange, a variety native to the Kyoto area. There were seedless kyuuri kyuuri cuc.u.mbers, delicious when sliced and dipped in a mixture of Worcesters.h.i.+re sauce and sweet j.a.panese mayonnaise. "Let's get some of those!" Sarah suggested. cuc.u.mbers, delicious when sliced and dipped in a mixture of Worcesters.h.i.+re sauce and sweet j.a.panese mayonnaise. "Let's get some of those!" Sarah suggested.

"Do you hear that jingling?" asked Mrs. Rexford as they walked toward the pickle shop. "Isn't it pretty?" The sound of countless tiny bells pervaded the street. It came from the stall owners' money bags, which hung overhead from rubber cords. Working the abacus with one hand, a vendor would pull down the bag with his free hand when he wanted to withdraw or deposit loose change. Omamori Omamori-religious charms with little bells attached, sold at local temples and shrines-hung from each money bag. When the vendor released his bag after a transaction, it bounced up on its rubber cord, and the omamori omamori bells-as well as the coins within-continued jingling for a minute or so until the bag stopped moving. bells-as well as the coins within-continued jingling for a minute or so until the bag stopped moving.

"It is is pretty!" said Sarah. pretty!" said Sarah.

"People call that the sound of prosperous commerce."

After the street bustle it was a relief to enter the cool, restful shade of the pickle store. The pickle store wasn't a stall like the others, but an extension of a private home. When the proprietor emerged from the back of the store to serve them, they caught a momentary glimpse of tatami mats and white floor cus.h.i.+ons through the open sliding door. There was a timeless, prewar quality about this place, due to the blackened wall boards and the wooden s.h.i.+pping barrels stacked against them.

"Welcome back, miss," the proprietor greeted Sarah. He was an elderly man with a thin strip of white cotton tied around his head, the traditional sign of a man ready and eager to work. "Remember how you used to stick your hand in the pickles when you were a little girl, before your mother could stop you?" Sarah giggled, embarra.s.sed but also pleased that he had remembered. To hide her sudden shyness, she leaned over to inspect the lacquered display boxes. They held a large array of pickled items: long fat daikon radishes, cuc.u.mbers, scallions, lotus roots, j.a.panese eggplant, gourds, greens, seaweed. They lay limply within various fermented pastes, whose pungent aroma stirred up in Sarah some memory from her early childhood that fell just short of definition.

"Pickles are Kyoto's most famous commodity," Mrs. Rexford informed her daughter, primarily for the shopkeeper's benefit. "They're a cultural treasure, you know, with all the subtleties of wine. Visitors from other cities always stock up on these to take home as gifts." Sarah had received similar "lessons" in the presence of other vendors, for her mother and grandmother were skilled in the subtle flattery that resulted in spontaneous markdowns.

The proprietor beamed as he scooped up Mrs. Rexford's order: sweet red pickle relish to serve with the curry Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ was making. "You both look very cosmopolitan today!" he said admiringly. "Simple elegance-now that's that's what I like!" He too was good at flattery. But it was true that Mrs. Rexford and her daughter made a striking pair. what I like!" He too was good at flattery. But it was true that Mrs. Rexford and her daughter made a striking pair.

Mrs. Rexford wore a new blouse of lipstick red. Few other women could have carried off such an intense color. Sarah wore a wide-brimmed straw hat with a big green ribbon tied off-center beneath her chin. The green of the ribbon brought out the green-gray tints of her eyes. Naturally, Mrs. Rexford had chosen it. The girl hadn't resisted. She had no clue as to what was acceptable in this country, and she trusted her mother's judgment here as she did not in America. Yielding to her mother had filled her with a surprising rush of happiness.

During the course of their shopping, they ran into several acquaintances.

"I see you all the time with your mother," one woman told Mrs. Rexford. "But I can never bring myself to intrude...you always look so close and intimate..."

"You're far too polite!" scolded Mrs. Rexford.

"It's so touching," the woman continued wistfully, "to see the way you scrub each other's backs at the bathhouse."

Some women from the weaving cla.s.s, whom Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ would have regarded with some social reserve, took this opportunity to draw near and chat.

"Do you live in San-Fran City?" they asked admiringly, looking them both over. "Do you wear trousers?" "Your girl's grown so big...so pretty..."

With a wide American smile, Mrs. Rexford chatted back.

Sarah watched and listened in silence. Among American women back home, her mother would have been the picture of Oriental demureness. Her att.i.tude was one of wide-eyed fascination: "How smart and funny you are!" Privately, Mrs. Rexford considered the Fielder's b.u.t.te women her intellectual inferiors, and had the playing field been level, she would have considered them her social inferiors as well. So her stories at home, while observant and witty, were not always kind. But some American women were flattered and charmed. Nurturing instincts aroused, they went out of their way to offer tutelage and protection. "Honey, your mama's a real doll doll!" they would tell Sarah, handing her recipes for potato chip ca.s.seroles and Jell-O molds. "Give this to your mama, I know she'll enjoy it. She's an absolute sweetheart, such an adorable little Chinese lady!"

Mrs. Rexford now stood in the crowded market, her red blouse like a flame attracting the pale, mothlike shades of the local women's dresses. This flamelike quality was also in her face. Watching her, Sarah felt that same deep joy as when her mother had picked out her hat.

Their final encounter was at the poultry stall. They approached two other customers who were standing under the red-and-white-striped awning, peering down at a straw-lined display of eggs in various sizes and colors. "Auntie Sasaki!" Mrs. Rexford called out to one of them, in the breezy voice that came so easily to her in this country. "What dish are you going to make with those eggs?" The elderly woman turned around to see who had spoken. Her face brightened with pleasure, and they fell immediately into conversation.

"Just look at you, Yo-chan," the woman said at one point, patting Mrs. Rexford's shoulder in the overfamiliar manner of the weaving cla.s.s. "I bet you're the queen bee over in America too, aren't you? Just like you were here. Oh yes, I know you are-don't deny it! Anta, Anta, I'm very perceptive! I can tell, just from looking at your face." I'm very perceptive! I can tell, just from looking at your face."

"Oh, please! please!" Mrs. Rexford protested, laughing. She dismissed the compliment with a languid wave of her hand, as she had been doing all morning. But this woman's bluntness caused a frisson of awkwardness to pa.s.s between mother and daughter. For Sarah knew what no one, not even her grandmother, fully understood: the truth of how things were in America.

"Is it true you once beat up a bully?" asked the second customer, a vacant-looking young woman in her twenties.

"Oh yes!" said the old woman. "That's a true story. true story. I know, because it was my very own boy that was being picked on." I know, because it was my very own boy that was being picked on."

"Once a success, always a success," chimed in the poultry vendor, who had come over with some fresh boxes from the back. "You've done us proud." The little group beamed at Mrs. Rexford, their eyes s.h.i.+ny with approval.

On that note, they headed home. They pa.s.sed a small tea shop, the last outpost before the street turned residential. Inside the display window was an a.s.sortment of skewered summer dumplings arranged on lacquered trays.

Sarah glanced at her mother. There was a pleased flush on Mrs. Rexford's cheeks, a glint in her eye, as if she had just come away from a party held in her honor. She caught her daughter's eye, then looked away.

"I guess the shopping took a little longer than usual," she said. She said this with a sheepish kind of dignity, and Sarah felt a rush of pity. Or maybe it was guilt: she, with her petty teenage cruelties, had been responsible for many of her mother's difficulties in America.

"Did it?" Sarah said gently. "I didn't notice." They walked on in silence.

The last time she had felt this sort of pain for her mother-the kind that made her stomach feel sick-had been almost a year ago. Mrs. Rexford had made German coleslaw for Sarah to bring to her school potluck: an authentic recipe with caraway seeds and vinegar. Hardly anyone at school had touched it, preferring the more familiar mayonnaise-covered potato salad. On her way home, Sarah had dumped the uneaten remains in the gra.s.s. Her mother, greeting her at the door, had seen the empty serving dish and cried, "Why, they ate it all!" and her happy expression had haunted Sarah for days.

What did it matter, she now asked herself fiercely, if her mother wasn't a queen bee on both continents? How many people were that lucky?

Sarah herself had never been a queen bee anywhere. But these days her status was rising. The neighbors' admiration and affection for her mother flowed over onto her with little distinction between them. Even in her own family, Sarah belonged-if only partially-to her grandmother's inner circle, for no other reason than lineage.

Even though she knew she was merely basking in her mother's glory, the effect was heady. It was like the time when she was a little girl and her grandfather had carried her on his feet while dancing a waltz. In that moment she had understood, for the first time, how it felt to move through s.p.a.ce with elegance and authority. "Soh soh, that's right," her grandfather had chuckled. " that's right," her grandfather had chuckled. "Soh soh, see? Your body knows it." see? Your body knows it."

Lately there were moments when Sarah found herself gliding through daily life with uncharacteristic confidence and ent.i.tlement, just like her mother. It was surprising how easy it was, how natural and right it felt. During such moments she felt a glimmer of hope that her true personality had been in hiding all these years, just as her mother's had been, and the whole world was opening up before her.

chapter 10.

They were halfway home when they met Mrs. Nis.h.i.+mura coming from the opposite direction. She held a parasol of pale blue linen in one hand and a woven straw basket in the other. The three stopped in pleased recognition. "You both look so nice!" Mrs. Nis.h.i.+mura said. were halfway home when they met Mrs. Nis.h.i.+mura coming from the opposite direction. She held a parasol of pale blue linen in one hand and a woven straw basket in the other. The three stopped in pleased recognition. "You both look so nice!" Mrs. Nis.h.i.+mura said.

"So do you, Auntie," said Sarah. Her aunt wore soft pink lipstick and a sundress of the same general shade as her parasol. Under the blue-tinted shade her face looked delicate, almost translucent.

"Ma-chan!" exclaimed Mrs. Rexford, her eyes still animated from the marketplace encounters. "Listen: go to Hachi-ya as soon as you get there. They're having a sale on prayer incense-the good kind. And it's going fast."

"Really? Good thing you told me. We're almost out."

As they stood chatting in the street, Sarah became aware of a problem. Inside her string bag, clearly visible if anyone glanced down, was a box of cream puffs. It had been laid right on top so as not to get squashed, and it was wrapped in the distinctive blue paper of Us.h.i.+gome Confectionery.

The problem consisted of several parts. On a simple level, Mrs. Rexford hadn't bought enough to share with the Asaki household. If her aunt knew about the cream puffs, she and the girls might expect to receive some that evening.

On a more complex level, Us.h.i.+gome Confectionery was far more expensive than the store where they had bought the Nis.h.i.+muras' cake on the first day. No expense was being spared for the Rexfords' visit-the best cuts of meat, the most expensive fish, gourmet-quality desserts. Mrs. Nis.h.i.+mura, who was Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+'s daughter too, had never had any such fuss made over her. Of course there were logical reasons for this. But there was a fundamental inequality here, one that mustn't be flaunted. Imitating the sleight of hand she had observed in her elders, Sarah casually s.h.i.+fted the basket behind her back.

Her mother shot her a look of approval.

That glance, coming on the heels of Sarah's remorse for her mother, triggered in her a burst of happiness.

Later, she would look back on this moment as one of the turning points of the summer. For it was the first time she had actively colluded against her aunt. Even in her happiness she was aware of crossing an invisible line of allegiance, leaving her auntie on the other side.

The lane that pa.s.sed through the weavers' neighborhood was narrower than the lanes at home and covered with asphalt instead of loose gravel. Although seemingly deserted, it resounded with the gat-tan, gat-tan gat-tan, gat-tan of wooden looms from the houses on either side. These were the poorer dwellings, lacking the buffer of gateways or garden entrances. They were packed so closely together that they gave the impression of being one continuous building, broken up only by individual roofs. of wooden looms from the houses on either side. These were the poorer dwellings, lacking the buffer of gateways or garden entrances. They were packed so closely together that they gave the impression of being one continuous building, broken up only by individual roofs.

When Sarah and her mother pa.s.sed the open windows, many of which were lightly barred with old-fas.h.i.+oned bamboo, the general clatter resolved itself into individual rhythms. In one house, it was slow and uneven. In the next house, the pace was fast and furious; someone was probably speeding through an unpatterned section. This lane was extremely narrow, almost claustrophobic with so much noise and so many miniature potted plants lined beside each door. The two of them, walking abreast, took up its entire width.

Then Sarah felt her mother's hand slip into hers.

She stared straight ahead, unable to look. Her mother's hand was warm and slightly calloused, and it held hers with the close, familiar grip she remembered from childhood. Sarah thought of the woman in the shrine, singing to her toddler in that tender voice. A strange burning started in her eyes, a slow treacherous swell in her throat. She widened her eyes so that no tears would spill.

They walked hand in hand through the cacophony of the looms. A straggle of wild gra.s.s, still lush from the rainy season, had pushed up through a crack in the asphalt. Its detail refracted sharp and clear through the moisture in her eyes.

"This little lane," said her mother, "is the best barometer of j.a.pan's economy. I tell you, it's so accurate you don't even need a newspaper." She said this nonchalantly, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

"Ng," said Sarah. said Sarah.

"Think about it," Mrs. Rexford continued. "When women have extra spending money, what's the first thing they do? They show off to their neighbors. They attend expensive tea ceremonies. They send their daughters for lessons in koto or cla.s.sical dance. And what do all these activities require? That's right, kimonos and sashes. And who weaves the silk? People like these."

"So this noise means j.a.pan's really prosperous right now?" Sarah thought of the bells attached to the vendors' money bags: the sound of prosperous commerce.

"Soh. The stock market and the looms move together. Every time. Remember that." The stock market and the looms move together. Every time. Remember that."

Noon was approaching, and it was hotter than when they had first set out. Their clasped hands became damp with perspiration. Even Sarah's bare arms felt moist. But she preferred this wet heat to the dry desert air of Fielder's b.u.t.te, where the harsh, undiluted rays burned the skin. She felt loose and open to the world.

The heat had caused one of the houses to leave its sliding door slightly open, in hopes of catching a breeze. From within, mixed with the looms' clatter, came a television's tinny sounds of applause and merriment. Above the tiled roofs white clouds were s.h.i.+ning, like explosions of giant popcorn. Happiness, like those clouds, hung just within their reach.

chapter 11.

"Don't forget," announced Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+, descending into the kitchen. "Granny Asaki's coming over after lunch to pay her respects to the altar." forget," announced Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+, descending into the kitchen. "Granny Asaki's coming over after lunch to pay her respects to the altar."

"I'll put some new flowers in the altar vase," said Mrs. Rexford. She stepped up into the dining room with a tray of freshly filled condiment bowls. "What do you think, Sarah-chan?" she said to her daughter, who was setting the low table for lunch. "Red camellias? Lilies are too tall. Or maybe a branch from the yuzu tree?"

Chan was an affectionate diminutive paired with children's names, a word with no real equivalent in English. Hearing this endearment on her mother's lips, after all the years of grammatically correct English, made Sarah absurdly happy. Suddenly shy, she avoided looking at her mother. was an affectionate diminutive paired with children's names, a word with no real equivalent in English. Hearing this endearment on her mother's lips, after all the years of grammatically correct English, made Sarah absurdly happy. Suddenly shy, she avoided looking at her mother.

"Yuzu sounds nice," she replied nonchalantly. "The baby fruits are so cute."

"That's what we'll do then," said her mother, unloading the tiny bowls for Sarah to arrange.

It was two days since they had held hands. A certain awkwardness still hung over them, like that of sweethearts after a first kiss. More than once Sarah had caught her mother watching her with an eager, open look.

Today Mrs. Rexford was in a playful mood. "Mommy," she called down to Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+, "can't Sarah and I have a little snack before lunch? We're hungry. Please, pleeeze?"

Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ climbed up into the room with a shallow wooden vat of steaming rice. "Kora, what a lazy, spoiled child I've got!" she lamented. She shook her head with mock despair at the sight of her grown daughter lolling at the low table, sneaking a bite from one of the condiment bowls. "There's a plate of sticky-bean cakes in the cabinet," she said, relenting, "but you'll just have to wait!" what a lazy, spoiled child I've got!" she lamented. She shook her head with mock despair at the sight of her grown daughter lolling at the low table, sneaking a bite from one of the condiment bowls. "There's a plate of sticky-bean cakes in the cabinet," she said, relenting, "but you'll just have to wait!"

Mrs. Rexford then turned to her daughter, who was watching the adults' silliness with a look of wary uncertainty. "Let's you and I raid the cabinet," she whispered loudly, "when your grandma's not looking." Sarah's eyes took on the look of a dazzled schoolgirl. Unable to come up with a response, she merely giggled at her mother.

"You two are hopeless," Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ declared, descending the wooden step into the kitchen.

After lunch, Sarah carried the finished yuzu arrangement into the family room. The household altar stood atop a dresser. It was a black lacquered box, with two doors that opened out like a dollhouse. Inside, on shelves, were tablets that looked like miniature headstones, each bearing the name of a deceased member of the Kobayas.h.i.+ line. Some of these tablets were so old, no one knew anything about them. On the bottom shelf were a small white candle, a sand-filled ceramic bowl studded with green incense sticks, a set of prayer beads, and a miniature inverted gong resting on a silk cus.h.i.+on. There was a doll-sized cup for water and a doll-sized cup for rice. Each morning, when Mrs. Kobayas.h.i.+ cooked a fresh batch of rice, she saved the first scoop for the altar-or more precisely for her first husband. Sarah was often awakened by the chinnn chinnn of the gong-surprisingly resonant for such a small piece of cast iron-and the muttered sounds of her grandmother praying. of the gong-surprisingly resonant for such a small piece of cast iron-and the muttered sounds of her grandmother praying.

She placed the vase beside the miniature gong, then returned to the kitchen. Her mother was squeezing out a dishcloth and hanging it over a bamboo rod sticking out from the wall.

"Would you mind taking these flowers over to your auntie?" Mrs. Rexford nodded toward a plastic bucket in the kitchen vestibule. It was filled with yellow lilies, picked earlier that day from the garden.

"Wait," said her grandmother, who was bending over the icebox. "Let me wrap them up first."