From a Town on the Hudson Read Online Free
Author: Yuko Koyano
came to help. Even the bulky Japanese sumo wrestlers I had seen at Madison Square Garden about thirty minutes earlier were of no help now. Also the sumo tournament's cheers, sweet smell of popcorn, and spotlights immediately vanished into the darkness that was as black as ink. Everything was so still that I could hear my heart beating. I began to worry about whether we would be able to return to our home in Japan alive or not. At that moment, I missed the safe, secure towns in Japan.
After a while, we found a blood-red light streaming out of the slightly open door of a building on the far right corner of the intersection. I had a ray of hope that somebody would tell us the way to the bridge. Our car moved forward slowly, and as we approached the corner, we could see a liquor store sign and a group of people around the door. Some were lying down on the sidewalk holding bottles and others were leaning against the wall. They seemed to be drunk. I almost gave up hope. Our car slowly turned right. When we were about to pass the store, one of those who had been lying down sat up suddenly, stood up, and then began to approach our car. A few men started following him. They all tottered. One lifted his hand. I held my breath.
I urged our older son, a sleepyhead, to check the rear door locks while, with a forced smile, I pretended to be a calm mother. My hands were moist with sweat because of fear. I looked at my husband, who must have been confused too. He said nothing but slightly pinched his nose a few times. I knew he was perplexed. However, he was calm as he slowed down so as not to hit those men. I prayed nothing would happen, but my imagination ran ahead of me; in my mind our family was at the point of death already.
The tottering men came on. Right in front of our car, with open arms, the astonishingly tall men moved like big puppets. The blood-red light of the liquor shop looked like a flame flaring up behind them. Waving bottles in mid-air they all shouted something to us in hoarse voices. I closed my eyes as I felt our car shake.
Even though our car had shaken only because my husband had suddenly put it in reverse, even though the group, perhaps out of kindness, had come to tell us that we had missed the ONE-WAY sign, and even though the sign had been pointing to the ground, it took a while for me to accept the situation. I shivered with fear and at the same time was ashamed of myself for my presumption that the drunken men were going to attack us.
We finally got back to Fort Lee at almost midnight. "We enjoyed the sumo, didn't we?" our younger son, who had been sleeping in the rear seat, said drowsily. I looked up at the modest but heart-warming porch light of our home.
OUR TWO sons were promoted, one to the eighth grade, the other to the third grade, in September 1985. After the long summer vacation, they had reverted to feeling like nervous newcomers. Even though they couldn't follow most of their classes yet, they wanted to participate more fully in school life with their American classmates. The older son especially didn't like being a guest any longer. My husband and I had been helping them with their homework from the beginning. We also started to explain what they would be learning the following day in science and social studies. We read the textbooks with them. My husband helped our older son, and I worked with the younger one. Because both brought home a lot of homework, including leftover classwork that they couldn't finish at school, all of our family spent time doing homework in the evening, and sometimes the next morning as well. My husband and I didn't want our younger son to stay up later than nine o'clock, so he went to bed earlier than his brother.
My husband, who had studied at an American graduate school, strictly guided our older son. Even after he had worked long hours at his office in Manhattan, he never missed tutoring our son. Sometimes he sounded stern, but his strong guidance helped his
After a while, we found a blood-red light streaming out of the slightly open door of a building on the far right corner of the intersection. I had a ray of hope that somebody would tell us the way to the bridge. Our car moved forward slowly, and as we approached the corner, we could see a liquor store sign and a group of people around the door. Some were lying down on the sidewalk holding bottles and others were leaning against the wall. They seemed to be drunk. I almost gave up hope. Our car slowly turned right. When we were about to pass the store, one of those who had been lying down sat up suddenly, stood up, and then began to approach our car. A few men started following him. They all tottered. One lifted his hand. I held my breath.
I urged our older son, a sleepyhead, to check the rear door locks while, with a forced smile, I pretended to be a calm mother. My hands were moist with sweat because of fear. I looked at my husband, who must have been confused too. He said nothing but slightly pinched his nose a few times. I knew he was perplexed. However, he was calm as he slowed down so as not to hit those men. I prayed nothing would happen, but my imagination ran ahead of me; in my mind our family was at the point of death already.
The tottering men came on. Right in front of our car, with open arms, the astonishingly tall men moved like big puppets. The blood-red light of the liquor shop looked like a flame flaring up behind them. Waving bottles in mid-air they all shouted something to us in hoarse voices. I closed my eyes as I felt our car shake.
Even though our car had shaken only because my husband had suddenly put it in reverse, even though the group, perhaps out of kindness, had come to tell us that we had missed the ONE-WAY sign, and even though the sign had been pointing to the ground, it took a while for me to accept the situation. I shivered with fear and at the same time was ashamed of myself for my presumption that the drunken men were going to attack us.
We finally got back to Fort Lee at almost midnight. "We enjoyed the sumo, didn't we?" our younger son, who had been sleeping in the rear seat, said drowsily. I looked up at the modest but heart-warming porch light of our home.
OUR TWO sons were promoted, one to the eighth grade, the other to the third grade, in September 1985. After the long summer vacation, they had reverted to feeling like nervous newcomers. Even though they couldn't follow most of their classes yet, they wanted to participate more fully in school life with their American classmates. The older son especially didn't like being a guest any longer. My husband and I had been helping them with their homework from the beginning. We also started to explain what they would be learning the following day in science and social studies. We read the textbooks with them. My husband helped our older son, and I worked with the younger one. Because both brought home a lot of homework, including leftover classwork that they couldn't finish at school, all of our family spent time doing homework in the evening, and sometimes the next morning as well. My husband and I didn't want our younger son to stay up later than nine o'clock, so he went to bed earlier than his brother.
My husband, who had studied at an American graduate school, strictly guided our older son. Even after he had worked long hours at his office in Manhattan, he never missed tutoring our son. Sometimes he sounded stern, but his strong guidance helped his
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