When everything was ready, Mom called to me to ring the dinner bell to bring the workers from the field. I opened the oven to peek at the pies, which had begun to brown. The juice was seeping over the crust, and you couldn’t tell where it had broken or where the strips across the top were different sizes.
“Ah,” one of the women said, looking over my shoulder. “Japanese men always like apple pie.”
After a while, the men came in from the far field, talking, laughing, pumping water to wash up, then sitting down at the table as we hurried out with platters and dishes of food. We were so busy that Betty Joyce and I didn’t have time to talk about Daisy. When the men were finished with the main course, we took the pies from the oven and cut big slices. “What did I tell you? We eat good here,” Carl told one of the workers. “My mom never made an apple pie like that.”
“Your Mom never made any apple pie.” Emory punched him.
When they finished eating, the crew lounged in the shade under the big cotton woods and talked and laughed. Some of them smoked, not roll-your-own cigarettes like Dad’s, but readymades. Carl and Emory joked with me and sometimes Betty Joyce, but the others didn’t look at us and always grew quiet when we got near them. I tried to be friendly and asked one boy where he came from, but he stared at the ground and mumbled, so I gave up. His friend said something to him in Japanese, and the boy swatted him, so I knew I’d embarrassed him. After that, I didn’t talk to the boys I didn’t know.
The crew was about to go back to work, when a truck drove into the yard and parked, the engine idling. Before Beaner could step down out of the cab, Dad got up and went over to him. Dad didn’t hurry, but he walked with a purpose, his head up, as if Beaner had stopped for a reason, not just pulled into our place because he was passing by. The boys stopped talking and sat up. One put his hand on his beet knife. They knew who Beaner was. Only the Japanese women ignored the truck.
“Afternoon, boys,” Dad said, putting his heavy work shoe on the running board of Beaner’s truck. Bits of dried mud came off his shoe and lay on the rubber tread. Dad gripped the window frame with his right hand. It was an easy gesture, but Beaner couldn’t open the door with Dad’s hand there.
“Howdy, Mr. Stroud,” Beaner said.
Danny opened the passenger door and stepped out. He raised his elbows, flexing his arms, then looked around the yard. When he spotted me, he grinned. I looked away, sorry they were there, because they had spoiled the easy manner of our crew. The Japanese were serious now, watchful. Beaner and Danny always ruined things.
“Is there something I can do for you fellows?” Dad asked.
“Anything wrong with a little neighborly visit?” Beaner didn’t look at Dad when he spoke; instead, he caught his reflection in the side-view mirror and raised his chin, looking pleased with himself.
“We’re a little busy right now with the beet harvest. Say what you came for,” Dad told him. His voice was calm, but there was an edge of steel to it. I knew never to cross Dad when he spoke like that.
“We’re not looking for trouble,” Beaner told him.
“I didn’t say you were.” But I knew they were, and I expect Dad did, too.
Danny took a few steps toward the house, looking around. Betty Joyce sucked in her breath, and I whispered, “They have to get past Dad and a crew of beet workers to get to us.” That was a silly thing to say, I thought. Why would Beaner and Danny go after us? Still, from the way Betty Joyce drew back, I wondered if they had tormented her at the hardware store and she was afraid of them. I figured she’d be glad the crew was between her and those two. Shoot, even I felt safer knowing there were all those beet knives in their way.
Dad didn’t move, but he told Danny, “Son, I advise you to get back into the truck.”
Danny didn’t do it, but he stopped walking and hitched up his pants.
“State your business, and then move along,” Dad said sternly.
Carl and Emory had stood up, their beet knives in their hands, watching Dad to see if he needed them. The others were squatting on their heels. The Japanese women knew something was wrong now, and they moved closer to the house, their hands wrapped in their aprons, just like regular farm women. Mom had gone to the bedroom window when she’d heard the truck pull in.
Beaner jutted out his jaw and said in a loud voice, so that the Japanese boys would hear, “Somebody’s stole my spare tire, stole it right out of my truck.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Dad said. He wasn’t looking at Beaner. Instead, he was watching Danny, who had started walking toward the house again, his hands on his hips.
“Yeah. I’m betting it was one of your Japs.”
“And when would they have done that?” Dad asked.
“Maybe at night.”
“Sneaked onto your farm, right past your dogs and all your people?”
“Could be.”
“You have proof of that, do you?”
“Maybe.”
“Then I advise you to take it to Sheriff Watrous.”
“Yeah, I thought that’s what you’d say.”
Dad couldn’t help but chuckle. “That’s the way the justice system works in America.”
“Well, these here ain’t Americans, are they?”
“They are on this farm.” Dad stepped away from the truck and made a circling motion with his arm. “You just swing on around now and go out the way you came. Danny, get back in the truck. We’re not looking for trouble here.”
Danny stopped but didn’t turn around, until Dad said again, “Danny.” His voice was as hard as it ever got, which was pretty darn hard.
“Yeah?” Danny said over his shoulder.
“I believe you heard me.”
“You wouldn’t be fixing to throw us off your property, would you, Mr. Stroud?” Beaner asked. “I got a couple of brothers could take on any Japs you got.”
“You go on about your business, Beaner. You’re not wanted here,” Dad said. “Danny, I advise you again to get into the truck.” Then, as if Beaner had come into the yard just to shoot the breeze, Dad turned and walked toward the house.
After a moment, Beaner said, “Spano, what the hell are you doing out there? Get in the damn truck.” Danny tried to look nonchalant, but he did what Beaner told him to. Beaner turned the truck around and sped out onto the road.
“Wow, Mr. Stroud. He could have hurt you,” Emory said, watching the truck disappear behind a wave of dust.
“Not when I had all you boys backing me up,” Dad said. “Now, come on, there’s beets to harvest.”
“He’s still pretty brave,” Betty Joyce whispered to me, and I nodded. I didn’t tell her how scared I’d been. Dad could have handled them in a fair fight, but Danny and Beaner weren’t fair. Beaner might have run down Dad in his truck, or Danny could have sneaked up behind him and punched him.
After the crew returned to the fields, Dad went over to Mom at the window.
“What was that about?” Mom asked.
“Those two were all liquored up. But even full of whiskey, a Jack isn’t fool enough to take on a crew armed with beet knives. I don’t think we have to worry about them.” But he told Betty Joyce and me that if Beaner came back, we were to ring the dinner bell and that he and the boys would come running.
After Dad went to the fields, I took a plate of food to Mom; then Betty Joyce and I sat down at the table with Granny and the Japanese women and ate our dinner. Afterward, we washed the dirty dishes.
“One day, we make Japanese food for those boys. You ask your mother. Daisy will tell you what to get,” one of the woman said.
“That’d be swell,” I told her.
“No apple pie,” the other said, pretending to look sad. They both laughed.
When we had finished cleaning up, Granny went outside with the Japanese women, who took out their knitting and waited for the boys to walk them back to the camp. Betty Joyce and I got out homework and spread it across the kitchen table. We were still learning diagramming i
n English class, and without Daisy to help us, neither one of us was very good. “Okay, we’ll start with a declarative sentence. Give me an example,” I said.
“Daisy is pregnant.” Betty Joyce giggled.
The springs in the bedroom squeaked, and we heard Mom get out of bed. I kicked Betty Joyce, who pantomimed “I’m sorry.” We both waited while Mom put on her slippers and her housecoat, then came out into the kitchen. She told us we’d done a good job and that she was sorry to have left us with all the work. Then Mom sat down at the table next to me, across from Betty Joyce.
Betty Joyce told her she didn’t mind. “You want some iced tea, Mrs. Stroud? I’ll get it for you.” Betty Joyce might have been hoping to get Mom’s mind off what she’d just said about Daisy, but I knew there was no use. You never got Mom’s mind off a thing once it was fixed on it.
Mom shook her head. She picked up the saltshaker, a Dutch girl. The pepper one was a Dutch boy, and if you put them together just right, it looked as if they were kissing. I never put them together. Mom twisted the shaker in her hand and set it down. She told us she had to make up a menu for the next day so that Dad could stop at the grocery after he took in the last load of beets. I knew this would be torture. Mom would go through the whole meal before she’d get around to Daisy. She asked me for a piece of notebook paper and picked up my pencil. “I thought hamburg steak, mashed potatoes.” She droned on, writing down the items. “What kind of pie? I guess you’ll get to be a champion pie baker before harvest is over, Rennie. What about lemon? Your dad can pick up some lemons. There ought to be lemons at the store.”
“You can use vinegar. It tastes the same,” Betty Joyce said.
Granny came into the kitchen then, catching the screen door with her foot. “Vinegar pie!” She wrinkled her nose. “Not in this house. We’ve never been so poor we had to serve vinegar pie.” She went into the dining room and came back with a spool of thread. “No vinegar pie in this house.”
“I guess that’s our answer. Lemon,” Mom said. When she had finished the menu, she wrote a grocery list at the bottom of the page, then folded the page and tore off the list and set it aside for Dad. “Do you girls know how to make meringue? If you don’t, Daisy can show you. She ought to be here tomorrow.”
“I know how,” Betty Joyce said.
I didn’t say anything. Mom had brought up Daisy’s name. Now we were about to get it.
“You girls should know that Daisy being pregnant is her business. It’s not ours.” Mom looked straight at Betty Joyce.
“Yes, ma’am,” Betty Joyce said.
Mom turned to me.
I thought that over and wasn’t so sure. “Maybe it is our business. After all, she works for us, and people are going to talk. They’ll ask us about her,” I said.
“I don’t know who that would be, unless we tell them.”
“They’ve got eyes. If we can see she’s going to have a baby, so can everybody else.”
Mom sighed. “Yes, I suppose it’s wishful thinking to believe we could keep it quiet.”
“Maybe she got married and didn’t tell you,” Betty Joyce said. I’d never told her about Daisy and Harry.
“No, she didn’t.”
“Why doesn’t she get married, then?” Betty Joyce asked. “Darlene Potts did when she got pregnant.”
I didn’t know that. “I’d rather have a baby and give it away than marry a Jack,” I said.
Outside, the Japanese women laughed at something, and we all looked out the door, surprised to realize they were still there. Betty Joyce lowered her voice. “I thought Japanese people knew about ways to get rid of babies, herbs and stuff like that.”
Mom gave a sad laugh. “As a matter of fact, I did, too.” She picked up the pepper shaker this time, wiped a few black grains off the top, and set it down so that the two shakers were back-to-back. “Girls, this is hard on Daisy. In the Japanese culture, it is a very bad thing to bring disgrace on your family.”
“It isn’t such a great thing if you’re a white person, either,” Betty Joyce said.
“No, I suppose not,” Mom replied. “But it’s even worse if you’re Japanese. People at the camp can be cruel to Daisy. That’s why she wants to keep on working here, to be away from Tallgrass for a few hours a day. I don’t suppose Ellis people will be much better. If any of the Stitchers remark on it, I’ll just tell them to mind their own business. Can you girls handle it if anyone at school says something to you?”
“Nobody at school knows anything about Daisy. They don’t know if she’s married or not,” I said. “Would you really tell the Stitchers to mind their own business?”
Mom gave me a stern look that said, Don’t be smart, and turned to Betty Joyce.
“I’ve had worse said to me. Don’t forget my dad’s a morphine addict,” Betty Joyce told her. I wondered what hurtful remarks kids had made to her. They hadn’t said them about her to me, maybe because they were too busy calling my dad a Jap lover.
Mom’s eyes got teary, and she reached across the table for Betty Joyce’s hand. Then she took my hand.
After a moment, I had a great idea. “Why don’t we say Daisy married Harry right before he joined the army?”
“That would be a lie,” Mom said.
“But it would make things a lot easier for Daisy. You could tell the Jolly Stitchers they got married in secret and then her husband was killed, and they’d make her baby clothes and be real nice to her because she’s a widow.”
“That doesn’t make any difference.” Mom’s voice was as firm as Dad’s when he’d spoken to Beaner that afternoon. “It would be wrong. It would be a lie.” She got up and went into the bedroom.
Betty Joyce frowned. “I think that’s a great idea. What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s a lie,” I said.
“But people lie all the time.” She gave a grim laugh. “We did.”
I thought about what a terrible thing it was to have been brought up in Betty Joyce’s family, where lying was as ordinary as telling the truth. Betty Joyce lied so that people wouldn’t know what went on at home. Mrs. Snow lied to protect Betty Joyce from Mr. Snow. And Mr. Snow’s whole life was a lie. But things were different in our house. “Our family never lies,” I said.
WHEN THE HARVEST WAS finished, the Hiranos came to call. We knew we had company, because they came to the front door. It was a Sunday, and we were in the dining room after dinner, Mom and Dad reading the newspaper while Betty Joyce and I lay on the floor listening to the Philco that we’d bought with the 1940 beet money. Dad and Mom exchanged a glance at the knock before Dad got up in his stocking feet and opened the parlor door. “Come on in, folks,” he said. The Hiranos followed him back to the dining room.
I stood up and motioned for Betty Joyce to get up, too. Dad sat down on the footstool to put on his shoes, the ones with the elastic gussets in the sides that he’d picked out of the Montgomery Ward catalog. Mom switched off the radio and gathered the newspaper sections and folded them together. She straightened the starched doily on the table next to her rocker and glanced around the room to see what else was out of place. Then she smiled at Mrs. Hirano and held out her hands. “What a pleasure to have company on such a blustery day.” We’d been lucky the weather had held until after the harvest, but now it was snowy and so dark at midday that Dad had turned on the floor lamp, which sent out a circle of yellow light.
Mrs. Hirano squeezed Mom’s fingers with her own tiny hands, which were protected from the cold by gray kidskin gloves. She wore a gray wool coat and a scarf made from some dead animal. Its legs hung over her shoulders, and its eyes must have been replaced with glass beads, because I’d never seen an animal with eyes like that. She wore high-heeled rubber boots that snapped on the sides and came up over her ankles. Mr. Hirano bowed and said, “We came to thank you for your kindness.” When Mom looked confused, he added, “The cake,” and handed her back her cake plate.
“It was nothing. There was so little we could do,” Mom sa
id.
“You called. You were the only ones from the town. And you gave Harry a job,” Mr. Hirano said.
Mrs. Hirano stood very straight and touched the tip of a tiny gloved finger to her eye. “Thank you.” Her way of saying it seemed to tell us she did not want to talk about Harry. People were funny about the dead. Sometimes they couldn’t stop talking about a friend or relative who’d passed on, but other times they couldn’t stand even to hear the person’s name.
After a pause, Mom asked, “Will you have coffee? We don’t have loose tea, just tea bags, which Daisy says are Japan’s revenge for sending missionaries to—” Mom got a horrified look on her face, but the Hiranos smiled at the joke.
“We like coffee,” Mrs. Hirano said. She took off the gloves, straightening each finger, then folded them together and put them into her pocket.
Betty Joyce and I made the coffee and took it into the living room. The men were already in the corner, talking about beets, and we joined Mom, who was sitting at the dining room table with Mrs. Hirano. Granny sat next to them in her rocker, sewing together two sections of a quilt square with a design called Soldier Boy, which was made up of squares and triangles and rectangles.
“May I?” Mrs. Hirano asked, nodding at the pieces of the square that were pinned together in Granny’s sewing basket.
Granny smiled, and Mrs. Hirano unpinned the cut shapes and laid them out on the table, carefully fitting them together like the pieces of a puzzle to make a soldier. When she was done, she clapped her hands.
Mom said, “Nothing brings women together like sewing. You don’t even have to speak the same language. It’s like men and crops. Have you ever seen two men smell the earth?”
“Yes, you are right,” Mrs. Hirano said. “Sewing is like that for women. That’s why I’ve brought you this.” She reached into her handbag and took out the silk bag that held the needlework of the birds. “It would please me if you would accept this. I would like to know that each time you look at it, you remember Harry.”
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