Obedient Wife

(Another long story, sorry, but I'm trying to work on my writing, so this is the result of about a week of writing and trying to edit my own work. Please let me know how I did!)

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It was supposed to be a simple grocery shopping trip. I have a small apartment, with a small kitchen, with not a lot of storage, so when I went to the grocery store, I went with the intent of purchasing enough food to plan a few days worth of meals, and I only ate two meals a day anyway. If I ever purchased breakfast food, it was because I'd planned on using it to have breakfast for dinner. I stood in one of three aisles full of freezers, where all the frozen food is stored and displayed... you've most likely been to a grocery store in your life, so you don't need me to explain the normal layout of a grocery store, do you?

It was late, nearly 10:30 at night, and the store would be closing at midnight, and I was adding a few packages of frozen corn to my shopping cart when a woman rounded the corner, coming into the same aisle. Her hair was in disarray, her makeup smudged with tears, and she looked simply miserable, though there's never anything simple about it, is there? She appeared to be Japanese or Korean, sometimes I can't tell, though I'm told there are differences in appearance between the two. I'm not racist, I just can't tell the difference sometimes. She was dressed in an old sea-foam-green cardigan and dark slacks, and had scuffed looking flats on her feet. Shopping seemed to be the last thing on her mind, but she still stopped at a freezer and grabbed a box of three-cheese lasagna and dropped it in her cart.

She didn't seem to see me as she passed, and, as I got a closer look at her face, I could see that she must be in her late twenties, maybe as old as 30, but perhaps the smeared makeup, mainly her mascara, made her look older, I thought. At first, I was hesitant to even speak to her, thinking that, whatever her problems, they were just that: her problems. But then she stopped, her back to me, and I could see her hunch over her shopping cart, and her shoulders started to shake as she sobbed quietly.

Shit, I thought to myself, I'm gonna get involved and she's probably gonna screech at me and cause a scene, but I'm gonna go and get involved anyway, because, if there's anything that gets to me the most, it's seeing a woman cry like that. I left my cart and approached her carefully, for some reason, a clip from The Crocodile Hunter coming to mind, 'Whoa! There's not many creatures as dangerous as the sobbing Asian lady, one bite from her will send you right to the hospital for stitches... I'm gonna pat her back!'

"Excuse me," I spoke quietly as I stood about a foot from her back, "Are you okay?"

She still started, and she hunched a little further, as if expecting to be hit, before turning to face me, "Oh... I'm sorry..."

Her English was saturated heavily by her accent, but she spoke carefully to make sure they came out properly.

"Is there something the matter?" I asked, keeping my voice low and soothing, trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible, as she seemed almost about to flee.

"Oh, no... I... I'm okay..." she wouldn't look me in the eye, her eyes fastened to the floor in a very demure fashion.

"It's just that you're crying," I said, "Is it something you'd like to talk about?"

She stifled a sob, sniffled, and sighed, "I am... I... am sad."

Not a very specific type of answer, I still asked, "Would you like to talk about it? I'm not busy or anything, so I have time."

"I should not speak bad about my... my husband... he brought me here to this country, and he make sure I have a roof over my head."

I nodded, "We can sit and talk about it, if you'd like."

She hesitated, stealing the barest of glances at me before lowering her head once more, "O-okay. Where do we sit and talk?"

"There's a diner across the street," I suggested, "We can have some coffee if you want."

"But your shopping?"

I shrugged, "I can come back tomorrow and do it then. What about yours? Do you need to finish shopping first?"

She wiped her eyes, "I... just... I pretend to shop..."

"And why is that?"

"So they not make me leave..."

I had to think about that for a minute, and then I asked, "How about we put these things back in the freezer then, okay?"

So she returned the lasagna to the freezer, and I put my frozen corn back. She had nothing else in her cart, and I had a few boxes of Minute Rice and a bottle of orange juice, but it would be fine until someone put it up. I would've, but I had other priorities, trying to do that whole 'white-knight' thing I tend to do that gets me into trouble more often than not. I walked with her out the front door, through the parking lot, and across the street to a diner called Sylvia's. Sylvia's was a bit run down, but clean, and the food was decent as long as you like it greasy. I chose an empty booth and gestured for the woman to sit down before I sat.

The waitress, a tired-looking sixty-year-old woman with her mousy-brown hair done up in a tight bun slapped two menus down in front of us.

"Two coffees to start, please?" I ordered.

"Cream and sugar's in the dish there," she pointed, "Be right back."

The Asian woman simply sat with her hands clasped together in her lap and her eyes on the table before her.

The waitress, whose name, according to her nametag, was Bethany, returned with two mugs of steaming-hot coffee, which she set before us on the table, "Anything to eat?"

"Not yet, I don't think, but probably shortly."

"Just give me a wave when you're ready," Bethany plodded off, her slightly overweight figure straining the seams of a too-small waitress uniform as she walked back to the front counter to sit at a stool.

I added half a container of half-n-half and five packets of sugar to my coffee, stirred it, and then glanced at the woman to find that she'd been watching me decorate my coffee. She then added two creams and four sugars to her own coffee before stirring it and taking a careful sip.

"So," I asked, "Would you like to tell me about what happened?"

She hesitated for a few seconds before explaining, "My husband... he has a... a mistress. He try to hide it from me, but I find out. I look through his pants when I wash clothes... and I find receipts... for motel and dinner at restaurant."

"That sounds awful," I winced.

"Today... I tell him I know... he got mad... very mad, yelling mad, call me names, say I... I am wrong for looking through his pants... he... make me leave house, tell me not to come back..."

Tears were overflowing and escaping her eyes by then, and I felt awful for her.

"Jeez, that's not right," I responded, "He was the one cheating, and he threw you out for confronting him on it? Is that why you were pretending to shop?"

She nodded, "I don't know what else to do. I cannot go home, and I cannot afford hotel. I took bus here..."

'Oh look,' I thought ruefully to myself, 'A damsel in distress! The White Knight rides again!'

To her, I suggested, "Well, if I could afford to, I'd get you a room for a couple nights at a hotel, but my budget's stretched thin."

"It is okay," she shook her head, "I not... I would not be able to accept such a gift."

"What I can do is let you stay with me. I can sleep on the couch and you can sleep in my bed, and then tomorrow, I'll help you figure out what to do next."

My words caused her to look up at me in surprise.

"I... I cannot... my husband be mad if I stay at other man's house."

"I don't plan on telling him, and you shouldn't either, if it would cause you more trouble, but I can't let you sleep on the street."

"But you... you do not have to help me... I am a stranger to you, never met me..."

"I know, but I'm going to help you anyway, because you need it and because I want to."

She continued to weep, stunned, and I sipped my coffee.

"I have some money... I save everything I can... I can give to you in payment," she began to dig in her dark-blue, scuffed-up purse for her wallet.

"No," I shook my head, "I'm not offering to help in return for payment. I'm offering it because you need it and I can help."

"But you have to," she insisted, "Help is never free. It always cost."

"Maybe it's always been like that for you, but I won't accept payment for giving something I can give for free. So keep your money in your purse, okay?"

She sat still for a moment, her hand still in her purse to extract her wallet, and then she set her purse back down next to her on her seat.

"I have nothing else to give for your help," she sighed dejectedly.

"How about your name?" I suggested.

"I don't... what do you mean?"

"Well, I don't know your name. My name is Jack."

"I am called Kyoko Yoshida... but married is Kyoko Reynolds."

"Kyoko Yoshida," I repeated, "That's a very pretty name."

She smiled slightly, "Thank you."

"Are you hungry, Kyoko?" I asked.

She nodded, beginning to speak, and then suddenly shook her head, "I no... I do not want to eat except if I pay for my own food."

"If you insist, then we'll split the bill," I conceded.

She picked up her menu and peered at it for a few minutes before picking seemingly at random, "I have this one."

I looked and found that she had picked the T-Bone steak and eggs, so I told her which one it was.

"Oh... no, I don't eat that..."

"Does English writing give you some trouble?" I asked.

She nodded, "It... confuses me..."

"You speak it well, though," I complimented her and asked, "What might you feel like eating?"

"I like... hamburger... I try when I come to America, and was good."

"And French fries?"

"Yes, that is good, too."

"Okay, I'll order it for you if you'd like."

She nodded, "Yes, please."

I waved Bethany over, ordered for Kyoko, requesting it be open-faced with all the toppings on the side, and ordered a steak and mushroom omelet with sausage and sourdough toast. She went to relay the order.

"What is... open-faced on burger?" Kyoko asked, confused.

"That just means that they'll bring it with the top of the bun off so that you can put it together the way you like."

"Oh... That is a good idea. I do not like onion or tomato on burger."

I nodded, "From now on, instead of telling them what you want on a burger, just tell them to bring it open-faced with the toppings on the side."

"I will, thank you for teaching me, Jack. You very nice to me, but I have done nothing to earn it. I am ashamed."

"You've done nothing to be ashamed for, and you deserve for people to be nice for you. You shouldn't have to earn that."

"But why are you nice to me? You see woman in grocery store, and she is crying, and you always help her and be nice to her?"

"Well, I try to be nice to everyone," I shrug, "But when I saw you I thought you might need more than just a nice word. You seemed miserable, so I just want to help."

"You offer your home to all women who cry?" she asked quietly.

"I don't usually offer my home, no. But once I learned that you were kicked out of your own home, I couldn't let you just sleep on the street."

"Why? You do not know me..."

I nodded, "I don't know much about you, no. All I know about you is what you've told me, and what you will tell me, so why don't you tell me some more about you?"

Bethany brought two plates of food, and then came back promptly with my side of sausage and Kyoko's burger toppings.

"Thank you," Kyoko nodded politely to Bethany.

"Thanks," I echoed, adding, "It smells delicious."

Though I knew Bethany didn't cook it herself, she still seemed pleased with the response, and she smiled, "Well, we do aim to please. Let me know if you need any more coffee, or some water or anything."

"We will, thanks."

Bethany returned to her stood behind the counter.

"I am older child," Kyoko said to me, "I have two brothers and one sister. I grew up in Okinawa in small house, but my father die when I was six, and mother have trouble taking care of us, so I go to live with mother's sister, Ami, and brothers and sister go live with Atsuko, father's friend. Ami was mean, punish me all the time when I make a mistake... I hear from friend about how men in America look for women in other countries to come and live with them, they take care of. So I sign up, and then husband bring me here."

Kyoko assembled her burger while she talked, but then she simply sat there, waiting. I cut into my omelet and took a bite, the steak tender and tasty. I was never unsatisfied by the omelets at Sylvia's. Once I'd begun eating, only then did Kyoko pick up her burger and begin eating. Jeez.

"So you came here... did you apply for citizenship and all that?"

She nodded, "Husband does not want me to do that."

I let the conversation drop for the time being while we ate. Then, once she was done and I was close behind, I spoke again, "I'm guessing that your husband doesn't treat you nicely."

She opened her mouth, and then shut it without answering.

"Right, you don't want to speak badly about him because he brought you here to America. You're like Dobby," I mused, likening her behavior to that of a particular house elf in the Harry Potter series.

"What is a... dobby?" she asked.

"Never mind," I smiled, not bothering to explain all that, as it might just confuse her more, "I'll just assume your husband doesn't treat you very nicely. Okay? So what do you think will happen to you, since he'd kicked you out?"

"I do not know," she sniffled, "I am scared I will have to go back to Okinawa."

"If you become an American citizen, I don't think they'll send you back."

"I do not please him anymore... that why he has mistress. I am not good enough wife."

"Somehow I doubt that," I replied, "Let me guess... you did the cooking and the cleaning, all the chores, brought him beers when he told you to, right?"

She nodded, "Like wife is supposed to."

"Not usually," I snorted, "But okay. And you did what he wanted whenever he wanted it, right?"

"I try to, but I never do enough, or he wouldn't need a mistress," she sighed miserably, "Terrible wife, no wonder he threw me out!"

"Somehow I doubt that any of this is your fault. Again, you don't have to say yes or no, but I'm guessing that he brought you here and married you because he was thrilled at the idea of having a subservient Japanese wife who would come running at the snap of his fingers to serve him however he wanted, fetch my dinner, wash my laundry, scrub my floors... but then he got bored with you, and it was nothing you did wrong, he just realized that having a subservient wife was just... boring, so then he starts cheating on you."

She didn't answer, but I was willing to bet I'd gotten the bulk of it correct. It's easy to paint a picture of what happened when it's pretty much a paint-by-numbers.

"Okay, well, unless there's something I'm missing, I'm fairly certain that none of this is your fault, Kyoko. You did everything you could for him, and if it wasn't enough for him, then it was on him, not you."

"I try to be good wife," she insisted quietly, "Even when I..."

"Even in the bedroom?" I offered.

"Yes," she nodded, "I try to do everything he tell me to do... even when it hurt me to do it, I do it because wife must do what husband say to do."

"It's not supposed to be like that here," I said, "Here, both the husband and the wife must work to make a marriage work, and the wife has a say in how things are done. He wasn't looking for a wife, he was looking for a servant. You were a good wife, he was just a horrible husband."

"I cannot say badly about husband," she mumbled, "Only shameful wife say badly about husband."

"You don't have to say anything about him," I assured her, "I think I see enough to figure this out. Anyway, I still would like you to come and stay at my place tonight. I'm not asking for anything in return, just that you stay the night and don't go sneaking off in the morning."

Kyoko stared at her hands, slender, dainty hands, but cracked skin, probably from endless cleaning, "I accept your offer, because I am afraid to sleep in the street like homeless girl. I have nothing for payment."

"Okay, well, if you're finished with your food and coffee, we should take care of the check."

Bethany seemed offended that Kyoko was paying for her own food, and she asked, "Why isn't he buying your dinner?"

Kyoko looked at her hands, "He offer, but I insist."

"He should've offered harder," she grumbled.

I kept my mouth shut and paid for my meal, adding the tip to the credit slip, tempted to give her less of a tip for her comment, settling on 15% like normal. We left the diner, and I led her to my car, a black Nissan Ultima, not the coolest car ever, but it was good mileage, sturdy, and, best of all, paid off. I opened her door for her, waited until she was seated, and then shut the door for her, you know, all gentleman-like. Then I got in, started it, and drove her the six miles from the grocery store to my apartment complex.

The gate at the front of the apartment complex required a four digit code that changed once a month. This month it was 7979, and I keyed it in, following it with the pound sign so that it would relay the code. It did, and the gate slid slowly open on its track. I drove around until I reached my apartment building near the back of the complex. Each building held eight apartments, and mine was on the first floor on the right entryway. I opened the front door and waited for her, but she stood there, just waiting, so I entered first. Only then did she come in. She looked around, but furtively, as if open curiosity might be a punishable offense. Perhaps, for her, it had been. It sounded like a shitty life for her.

I had chosen a two-bedroom apartment, but the second room was barely big enough for a bed, so I put a desk and a desktop PC in there instead. The couch in the living room was comfortable enough, and I'd actually fallen asleep on it on numerous occasions. Luckily, I kept a decently clean apartment, so I didn't have that awkward running-around-and-picking-up-dirty-clothes activity. Kyoko still stood in the doorway, so I beckoned her further inside.

"You have nice place," Kyoko responded, though it seemed more like a formality.

"It's not too expensive," I shrugged, "Please, come in and sit down."

Kyoko removed her flats, placing them by the front doorway, and then came in and perched on the couch, barely on the cushion.

I took off my own shoes and placed them by the door as well, and I took off my jacket, hanging it in the small coat closet.

"It's a pretty open floor plan," I indicated the lack of walls between the living room and dining room and the kitchen, which was only separated by a bar counter, "Here, let me show you the two bedrooms."

She stood and obediently followed.

"This is the second bedroom, but there's barely enough room for the desk. Here's my bedroom. You can stay in here, and I'll take the couch."

"I can't..." she shook her head, "I can sleep on floor. You sleep in your bed."

"Why?"

"Because... it is your home. I sleep on floor."

"I can't let you sleep on the floor, Kyoko, that would not be very nice of me. I want you to sleep in the bed because it's comfortable."

"Please... I must not allow you sleep on sofa when it is your bed..." she began to tremble.

I touched her shoulder, feeling her tense in response, that slight hunching again as if she expected me to hit her.

I gently rubbed her shoulder, "It is the right thing to do, for me to offer you the bed. You are my guest, and, as my guest, I want you to be as comfortable as possible. Now, if you have to insist that you won't take the bed, would you at least sleep on the couch and not the floor? I'd feel awful if I was sleeping on my nice, comfy bed while you're lying there on the floor."