Spiderwebs
The next morning, when Obaachan comes to breakfast, Mom offers her green tea. “I’ll take coffee,” Obaachan says. “It smells very good. Like burned incense at the Year of the Tiger Festival.”
Dad gets up and pours her a mug.
“See. I am becoming American.”
Sally slumps in and sits at the table. “Someone took a bite out of this doughnut already.”
“That’s because it’s my doughnut, Sally,” Dad says, “on my plate, right where I was sitting. The box is on the counter.”
“Get a life, Dad.”
“Get a doughnut, Sally.”
“Sleep well?” Mom asks Obaachan.
“I’ve lost my ability to dream.”
“You don’t dream?” Sally asks.
“I always dream the same dream. That’s the problem. Smoke and flames.”
“Sounds like a nightmare,” Dad says.
“It was.” Obaachan grimaces at her first sip of coffee. “So many Japanese are now drinking coffee. The letter from Shizuko says they are opening a Starbucks next year in the Ginza District.”
Dad tugs his plate from Sally. “Now pass me the paper.”
“He reads the news three times over,” Mom says. “There’s the Providence Journal, the New York Times, and the Boston Globe. He’s the best informed person in the country.”
“If you know history,” Obaachan says, “you don’t need the newspaper. It always repeats itself.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Mom argues. “Why, think about technology. It changes the world. And President Clinton is bringing peace everywhere, even in Ireland.”
“Listen to this,” Dad says. “There’s a pancake in Alabama that has the face of Mother Mary on it. It’s been on display at the restaurant for three years without getting mold.”
The phone rings. “It’s Nora,” I say.
“Hello.” Mom answers. “Nora. Oh, wonderful. Yes. Just bring rose water and nasturtiums. They’re edible. And the seashell molds. I’m on my way.”
“It’s creepy how you do that,” Sally says.
“What?” I ask.
“Know who it is when the phone rings.”
“It’s always Nora.”
“No, it’s not. A lot of time it’s for me. Even Dad gets an occasional call.”
“Even Dad?” he says.
“I have to go. Nora was supposed to set up for the dessert competition, but she’s running late, so I have to do it.”
“Uh-huh,” Dad says.
“The world is coming to an end,” Mom says louder.
“Uh-huh.”
Mom musses Dad’s hair. “You’re in charge, now. Get Sally to Marigold’s. Sally, clean your side of the room when you get home.”
“Bring home some leftovers,” Sally says.
“Bye.” Mom looks nervously at Obaachan. “You’re sure Lin is not too much for you?”
“We’ll be fine.”
“You done, Sally?” Dad sets the paper down. “Come on. I’ll walk you over to Marigold’s on my way out.”
“I’m not a baby.”
“Then I don’t have to change your diaper? What a relief. Come on, kiddo.”
“Just stand at the corner. Don’t walk me to the door. I’m not—”
“—a baby. I know.”
“Ah, silence,” Obaachan says when the house is finally ours. “It’s a most beautiful sound.”
Is it a sound? I wonder.
“Truth hides in silence, as you well know.”
Do I?
“Now, what would you like to do? Play a game?”
I would like to go in her room and learn the stories of the statues and candles, the silk cloth, wooden shoes, and kimonos. I would like to see the objects that came out of the many boxes that arrived at our doorstep from a brown truck. But Mom has told me that she would invite me in if she wanted.
“Let’s go in the backyard,” I suggest.
“Yes.” Obaachan nods. “I should do that. I’ve hardly stepped outside since I arrived.”
We share a yard with our downstairs neighbor, Mr. Caros, a Portuguese man who yells at his wife. Once, when she was hanging laundry up, he came outside and yanked the clean clothes to the ground and stomped on them.
It’s a small yard surrounded by different trees—pine, birch, blue spruce, and maple—as if the person who planted them couldn’t make up their mind. There is a plot of grass, a brick patio, two Adirondack chairs, and a table. The chairs belong to Mr. Caros, but he lets us use them; he saves his meanness for his wife.
I bring out Checkers and Go Fish. We play until lunch. Obaachan makes fried fish and rice with cabbage and pickled cucumbers for lunch. Then she naps under the trees while I practice my cello and paint watercolors. I keep thinking how lucky I am to have an obaachan, and not to be in camp with a bunch of other kids bumping and yelling, forced to speak up and act like the others.
After lunch, I bring out my favorite book, Curious George. “This is George. He lives in Africa . . .” I read to Obaachan about George trying on the man’s yellow hat and being captured, phoning the fire department, and flying away with balloons. Then I read her another where George rides a bike. He’s supposed to deliver newspapers, but he makes them into boats.
“You know who George reminds me of?” Obaachan says.
“Sally.” That is why I love the book.
“Exactly. Aren’t you young to be able to read?”
“The only other person in my kindergarten who could read was Matt Perino,” I say, “and he’s already six.” Then I turn my face away so she won’t see me blush; it is very bad to brag.
“Do you see that spiderweb?” She points. “When the spider casts its web, the first thread is tossed into the wind. Wherever the wind blows, the web will be built. It is the insect version of destiny.”
“What is destiny?”
“It is the story the universe has written for us.”
“Do we always have to obey the story?”
“You can try not to. But things work out better for us if we do.”
“How do you know the story?”
“You feel it.” She pats her stomach. “Here.”
“Tell me a riddle, please. A koan like before, and I’ll answer it.”
When Obaachan smiles, the crinkles around her eyes draw all the way down her face. “You don’t have to answer a koan. It is something to meditate upon. But I’ll try to find one you can answer. Let’s see. ‘What is the difference between watching the whole world and watching one spider?’”
Remembering about the students who answered too fast, I take my time. I watch the spider sleep in its perfect web. “There is no difference.”
“Yes, I think that’s right. Each is equally sacred. Everything in life is sacred. It is only man who puts himself above other creatures, who is removed from the soul of animals, insects, plants, and trees.”
“Girls,” Mr. Caros booms from his doorway. “Food and entertainment.” He carries a tray with lemonade and cookies and sings “Nessun dorma” and “O Sole Mio.”
Obaachan claps her hands. “You sing so beautifully, and my granddaughter loves cookies.”
“Italian opera,” he says. “In my soul, I am Italian. And to see you two lovely ladies enjoying this beautiful day moved my heart to sing. Now . . . back to work.”
After he is gone, Obaachan stares at the space where he stood. She is completely still, like she is looking at a painting on the wall of a museum. “He is a big man, but he feels very small inside. That is why he treats his wife so badly.”
This is right, I think. But how does she know? The only time you hear them is when they’re outside, when Mrs. Caros is hanging up the laundry or potting plants, and he sits behind her, smoking and telling her she’s not worth much. But maybe Obaachan saw them out the window. Maybe that was it. Or maybe she’s like me and things just come to her. Unexplainable.
She yawns. “Sleep is another world. Maybe a truer world.”
But I’m not sleepy. I’m excited by the row of ants marching in a straight line across the bricks, the peeling bark on the birch, exposing every shade of brown that exists, the shadows of the leaves jangling on the lit pavement, and the spider waking and beginning her intricate weaving again, teasing out each spindly thread to its own destiny.