Michiko put on knee socks that no longer came up to her knee, blue drill pants that had been let down twice, and a navy sweater with patches across the elbows. By the time she ate breakfast and pulled on her rubber boots, the first long furrow of broken soil waited. She watched a robin land. He cocked his head to the ground. Then he pulled a soft worm from the ground and flew away.
“What’s this row going to be?” Michiko asked.
Geechan shrugged and made his way to the back of the garden to start again.
“I hope we are putting in potatoes,” Clarence announced, appearing from the side of the building. A burlap sack swung at his side as he walked. He wore a flannel shirt and denim pants with a small hole in one of the knees. Thick striped socks topped his scuffed hobnailed boots. “I just love potatoes.”
“What’s in the bag?” Michiko asked. She was pleased Clarence remembered to come.
“I made three of them,” Clarence announced proudly, “one for you, Hiro, and me.” He placed the sack at Michiko’s feet.
“They just look like cans to me,” Michiko said, opening the sack and peering inside.
“They are cans.” Clarence pulled one out and showed her the rows of small holes in the bottom. “They’re watering cans. You dip it in the bucket and move it along the row.”
“Good thinking,” Ted commented, striding into the yard. He shouldered a shovel, pickaxe, and hoe, his strong carpenter hands clamped over their wooden handles. His open shirt revealed a snow-white undershirt. His deep black eyes sparkled.
“Something for each of us,” Ted said, letting the tools clatter to the ground. “You pick.”
“I pick the pick,” Clarence said. “I’ve always wanted to strike gold like a prospector.”
“You mean silver,” Michiko corrected. “This used to be silver town, not gold.”
“This town is nothing but a ghost town now,” Ted said as he lifted the shovel.
“Don’t forget to plant peonies for prosperity,” Michiko’s Aunt Sadie called out to them from the back door. She put the red-painted tips of her long straight fingers to her lips and blew Michiko a kiss. Hiro, in her arms, played with the pompons dangling from her sweater.
Looking at her mother’s elegant sister, most people would think Sadie was too haikara for hard work. But when they first arrived she had chopped wood, hauled water, and scrubbed clothes just like everyone else. If anyone needed help, she would be the first to put on her overalls.
“Hiro, what do you think we should plant?” Michiko asked with a grin.
“A beanstalk,” Ted replied. “That way he can climb it.” Then he added under his breath, “Yancha kozo de ne.”
Michiko giggled. Sadie said Ted was just as mischievous when he was a boy.
“For Hiro,” Sadie said walking into the garden, “we can plant an iris.”
“Why?” asked Clarence.
“Our mother was forever trying to grow a Hirohito iris, but it would not bloom.”
“We better plant more than flowers,” Ted muttered in exasperation. “Especially if we have a winter like the last one.”
Ted, Clarence, and Michiko helped Geechan dig and scrape the soil until the rectangular patch of land was full of scalloped edged rows.
“Tomorrow we sow,” Ted announced. “Each person gets to plant a row.” He reached out for the pickaxe from Clarence. “You get to do the potatoes,” he said, ruffling the boy’s bright red hair with his hand.
Clarence waved and headed home. The rest went indoors for lunch. Any other time Clarence would be welcome to stay, but not today. Today the family had important business.
The night before, someone pounding on the shop door had made everyone stop eating in surprise. Michiko watched her father place his napkin at the side of his plate and rise from the dinner table. They all stared at the grey envelope he returned with, wondering what it was, but Sam did not open it. He put it down next to his plate, tapped it lightly, and said, “We wait for Ted.”
Later that night Michiko turned the letter over. The words OPENED BY CENSOR and the examiner number were missing. Michiko hoped it meant they could go back to Vancouver.
Her mother spread the tablecloth and set out the napkins. Eiko always insisted their table be set properly. “It makes the food taste better,” she said many times.
Michiko waited patiently for their lunch to finish.
Finally her father took a knife, slit open the envelope, and handed the letter to Ted.
Ted scanned the letter. Taking a deep breath he read it out loud: “Please be informed that your property, in its course of sale, received a price equal to that placed upon it by an independent appraiser.”
Her mother folded her hands in her lap and said, “I should think so. We painted and installed new furnace pipes.”
Michiko jumped into the conversation. “We had a garden in the back and in the front.” She stopped talking when Sadie looked her in the eye and shook her head.
“Proceeds will not be given to the owners,” Ted continued as his voice grew low, “unless they can prove need.”
Sadie gave a sharp incredulous cry.
Ted lowered the letter to the table. “You don’t want to hear the rest.”
Eiko buried her face in her hands. “What do they mean by need?” she said.
“Let me see that,” Sadie said, snatching up the letter. She scanned it quickly with her eyes, and then read out loud, “Your Ford was sold by the government for thirty-three dollars. Handling charges for the transaction were thirty dollars.” Her voice moved to anger as she shouted out the words: “We will forward you a cheque in the amount of three dollars.”
Sadie waved the letter in front of everyone’s face. “Do you mean to tell me that you can’t get the price of your own house or your own car? All you get is three measly dollars?”
Ted took the letter from her and handed it back to Sam. “You knew the house sold.”
Geechan patted Sam’s arm. “We can never see the sun rise by looking into the west.”
“How can you say that?” Sadie screeched. “First they take your boat, then our radios and cameras.” She stood up, shoving her chair behind her. “They forced Sam into a chain gang,” she exclaimed, “and all you can say is, look the other way?”
Michiko held her breath, expecting her grandfather to rise and rebuke Sadie. But he didn’t.
Sadie threw the letter to the table. “I will never stop looking back.” She strode out of the kitchen, down the stairs, and slammed the back door.
No one at the table moved.
The letter lay in the middle of the table.
Sam planted his elbows on the table, settled his face into his hands, closed his eyes, and gave out a loud sigh.
Chapter Four
NEW TEACHER
Michiko sat outside the drugstore on the wooden walkway, hugging her legs. She waited for the school security truck. Whenever Mr. Sagara drove it, Kiko got an early ride to school.
Before long, she saw it turn the bend and stop in front of the church. The little students got out. Kindergarten was in the church basement.
The truck drove down the street toward her and stopped. Kiko hopped out. She wore what most of the girls in the orchard wore to school. A light beige cardigan covered her pink-and-white-striped cotton blouse tucked into navy slacks. Michiko wore a green corduroy skirt to school today. Matching barrettes held her short, straight black hair behind her ears.
“I wonder what she looks like,” Kiko whispered as they walked beneath the tattered awning of the Hardware Store School. The building sounded as hollow as a drum as they made their way to their partitioned classroom.
Michiko put her notebook on her desk. In the excitement of their letter, she had forgotten all about getting a new teacher.
Kiko lifted the wooden top of her desk and placed a small furoshiki inside. Michiko didn’t have to bring a lunch to school. Her lunch waited for her across the street. On Fridays she brought Kiko home. Kiko eagerly looked f
orward to steaming miso soup and tamago yaki, made with Mrs. Morrison’s farm-fresh eggs.
“I hoped we would meet her before anyone else,” Kiko whispered.
Michiko looked at the blackboard. There was no date. The bottles of ink were still in a line along the window ledge. The stack of textbooks was missing from the teacher’s desk.
“Are you sure there is school today?” she asked. But before Kiko could reply the clanging of the big brass bell brought the rest of the children running and pushing into the room.
In the bedlam of voices shouting and talking, Michiko covered her ears and sat down.
“Good morning, class,” said a strong voice from behind them. A tall man with a big smile pushed aside the grey government blanket that acted as their classroom door. He strode to the front of the room and perched on top of the teacher’s desk, waiting for the bedlam to subside.
“It’s a man teacher,” Kiko hissed behind her hand.
Michiko rolled her eyes. She could see that as plainly as the others. She put her face on her fists to listen, as the class sized up the bronze-skinned man with short black hair and chocolate eyes. He wore a knitted blue vest over a long-sleeved blue plaid shirt. A soft brown shoe with a single lace dangled from beneath the cuff of grey trousers.
“My name is Kaz Katsumoto,” he said.
The boys in the room all began to talk at once.
“But you can call me,” he said as he looked directly at the boys, “Mr. Katsumoto.” He reached into his pocket and took out a small piece of chalk. Then he turned and wrote his name on the board. Several of the boys continued to murmur in excitement.
“Good morning, class,” he said for a second time, when he finished writing.
“Good morning, Mr. Katsumoto,” came the murmured reply.
“Is that the best you can do?” Mr. Katsumoto said in mock surprise. “I heard more noise that that walking into the room.”
The boys at the back grinned. “Good morning, Mr. Katsumoto!” they yelled.
“Not bad,” he responded, “but not good enough to cheer on a baseball team. Try again.”
Michiko and Kiko looked at each other in surprise. This was the first teacher that asked them to be loud. Most expected them to be quiet.
“Good morning, class,” he said to them for a third time and cupped his ear.
“Good morning, Mr. Katsumoto!” the entire class thundered.
“The first task of the day,” Mr. Katsumoto began, “will be to determine our timetable.” He opened the drawer of the desk and removed a small stack of paper. “But first I need to know your names.” He walked to the back of the room and handed some paper to each person at the end of the row. As they passed the paper forward, Mr. Katsumoto said, “Match the paper perfectly corner to corner and then fold. Write your name below the fold and place it in front of you.”
He waited as the children did as told. Then he walked up and down each of the rows reading each card out loud. He stopped at Kiko. She had not only folded the paper in half, she made a small fold on the front, creating a trough for her pencil “You like origami, Kiko?” Mr. Katsumoto asked.
Kiko blushed and nodded.
“Me too,” he said. Then he asked the entire class, “Is anyone missing from class today?”
A girl at the front put up her hand. “Tamiko is not here,” she informed the teacher. “Her mother had a baby last night and she won’t be in school for a few days.”
Mr. Katsumoto nodded in understanding. “Please make a card for her,” he directed Kiko, handing her a piece of paper. “Even though she is absent, she is still part of our class.”
Michiko liked the way this new teacher thought. When the tall, gawky girl named Tamiko returned, she would be pleased.
The new teacher stood in front of the blackboard, tossing the piece of chalk up and down in his hand. “Now,” he announced, “we will create our timetable.” He looked at them all and asked, “What do you want to learn?”
This question took everyone by surprise.
Kiko’s hand shot up. “Our subjects should be English, mathematics, and social studies,” she informed him with confidence.
He wrote the list on the blackboard then stood back and waited.
“I hope we can have art lessons,” Michiko volunteered.
The teacher added them to the list. “Is there anything else?”
No one else spoke.
“There is one thing missing,” Mr. Katsumoto remarked looking up and down the list. “We need the one subject necessary to one’s mental alertness that takes a lot of daily practice.”
The whole class groaned. What could this awful subject be?
He put the chalk to the board and paused. “I expect each and every one of my students to excel in this subject.” He wrote the letters B-A-S-E, then paused and wrote B-A-L-L.
A cheer went up from the class.
“This way,” Mr. Katsumoto informed them, pulling a familiar white ball from his pocket. “We will learn to be a team.” He tossed the ball from hand to hand. “And we will save all our noise, energy, and excitement for the field. Is that understood?”
It was as if the new teacher had waved an invisible wand. All the students sat straight up, folded their hands on top of their desks, and looked straight ahead.
“How many of you are bilingual?” Mr. Katsumoto asked.
Kiko put up her hand. “I speak both English and Japanese.”
Understanding what the strange word meant, several other children put up their hands. Michiko did not put hers up. She understood fragments of her grandfather’s language, but she couldn’t speak it with confidence.
“You know,” Mr. Katsumoto said with a frown, “Japanese is not to be used at school.”
“Mr. Katsumoto,” Michiko told everyone at dinner, “says baseball teaches teamwork.”
“Mr. Katsumoto?” her father said in surprise. “His first name couldn’t be Kaz?”
Michiko nodded, her mouth too full of rice to speak.
“Did you hear that, Geechan?” Sam exclaimed. “Kaz Katsumoto is here!”
Geechan put down his chopsticks. “Asahi Katsumoto?” He put his dry spotted hands together and extended his arms, he swung them back then forward, then he cupped his eyes with his hand and followed an imaginary home run.
Chapter Five
SOYA SAUCE
After a day of sewing, helping with customers, and managing Hiro, Michiko’s mother flopped into the wicker chair. A present from Mrs. Morrison, it groaned whenever anyone sat. Her mother’s face was lined and her eyes puffy.
“Do you want me to make dinner?” asked Michiko.
Her mother nodded with gratitude.
Michiko measured the rice carefully. She washed it in a big bowl of water, rubbing the grains gently. She drained it and repeated. When the water ran clear she put it on to boil. That much she knew how to do. But they couldn’t just eat rice. She opened the door and stared at the single lump of brown waxy paper in the icebox. Rice and bacon would have to do.
“Yoo-hoo,” a woman’s voice called out from the bottom of the staircase.
Michiko ran to open the apartment door for Mrs. Morrison. A yellow straw hat brimming with daisies sat askew on her cloud of carrot-coloured curls. The woman looked up and smiled. Her cheeks were pink from exertion. Behind her gold-rimmed spectacles, small blue eyes peeked out of a fleshy face. She put her dimpled hand on the frame of the door when she reached it. Her bosom heaved. The effort to get up the stairs took all of her breath.
“Is your mother here?” she asked blinking behind her spectacles. “If not I’ll have to wait for her. I can’t do those stairs more than once a day,” she puffed.
“I’m here,” Michiko’s mother said rising from the chair. “This is a nice surprise.”
Mrs. Morrison raised her string bag in salute. Michiko’s mother took her by the arm and walked her to the kitchen. Edna placed the bag on the kitchen table — she never came to their house empty-handed. A jar o
f homemade pickles or jam, a cooking utensil, eggs; she brought anything that helped make their life easier.
“I’m making dinner,” Michiko told her proudly. “I’ve already washed the rice and I’m going to chop up some bacon.”
“Good thing I brought a cabbage,” Mrs. Morrison replied, “and an onion.”
“And add a touch of shoyu,” her mother said. “Not much, be careful.”
The shortage of soya sauce was becoming a problem for everyone who ate Japanese food. Miso, the special bean paste that most people used every day, was also in great demand. Her father had hung a hand-printed card reading THIS IS NOT A GROSHERY STORE in the drugstore window to stop people from asking.
Michiko filled the kettle and put it on the stove. The smell of frying onion filled the kitchen.
“I just left the church meeting,” Edna began, reaching for the sugar bowl. It was one of her mother’s china cups that had lost its handle. “While I was in town I thought I would visit.” She rummaged about in her purse. “I need to take advantage of your sewing talents.”
“A new dress?” her mother asked.
“Curtains,” Edna replied. She opened her purse and pulled out a small brown paper bag. “One for each of us, and two for my little Heero,” Edna said, referring to the oatmeal cookies.
Michiko smiled. Mrs. Morrison always pronounced her little brother’s name incorrectly. She just couldn’t get the inflection. She handed one to Hiro. He took it, examined it, then broke off a chunk and stuffed it into his mouth.
Mrs. Morrison explained the troubles she had getting the right material for new curtains. “I asked for poppy-coloured material, but they sent me scarlet, then wine, then purple.” She took a sip of tea. “By the way, the church is thinking of having a bazaar.”
Cherry Blossom Winter Page 2
