1001 Cranes

by Naomi Hirahara

  Tonight my father calls my cell phone. I know it’s him even before I answer. I look at the digital screen, and sure enough, it says DAD’S CELL.

  When I hear Dad’s voice, I feel not sad, but angry.

  I let him stumble around trying to put awkward words together.

  Finally, I whisper, “Why?”

  “What, Angie? I can’t hear you.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me when I left? I knew about the apartment. Your new landlady called.”

  Silence. “That was wrong of me,” Dad says. “We should have talked it over before you left. I just didn’t want to make it harder for you to go to L.A.”

  No, you didn’t want to make it harder for yourself, I think. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Honey, it’s not anything I’m doing against you. Sometimes these things happen. This is between your mother and me. You never think something like this is going to happen. But things change; people change.”

  “Was Mom nicer before?”

  Dad then laughs. “No, she was the same monku girl the day I met her.” I can’t help smiling a little myself.

  “Where are you living, Dad?”

  “I’m in an apartment, just down the street.”

  “How many bedrooms?”

  “Well, it’s a studio. So I guess it’s zero bedrooms.”

  I imagine Dad in his sweats, surrounded by brown boxes in his one-room apartment.

  “You’ll be able to visit me anytime.”

  “Can I come now? I won’t be any trouble. I can sleep in a sleeping bag, even.”

  Dad is silent for a minute. “No. No, right now, it’s better if you’re with your grandparents.”

  “How about Jii-chan and Baa-chan?” At least I would be closer to my house.

  “No,” says Dad in his no-monku voice. “It’ll be better if you stay put. At least for now.”

  So is this really it? The end of us? I want to fix it, to be the glue that fastens my parents together again. My heart starts to race. I try to say something but only manage a squeak.

  “I know that you don’t understand, Angie, but none of this—none of it is your fault.”

  I feel tears come to my eyes; I have a limitless supply of them. I wish tears were finite, like the water in a water bottle. I would be all dried up by now. “I don’t want to be alone, Daddy,” I finally say.

  “You’ll never be alone, honey. You’ll always have me and your mother. And Jii-chan and Baa-chan, Grandma Michi and Gramps, Aunt Janet. We’ll always, always be there for you.”

  I swallow a lump of air in my throat. When you swallow a cry like that, it feels good, at least in the short run.

  I don’t hear what my dad says next. My dad is a dreamer. He dreams about buildings that don’t exist. He just imagines beams, walls, and roofs. He draws them from his mind. Other people do the messy work. I know because I’ve been on a construction site before. I’ve worn those funny hard hats and followed my dad over dirt and gravel. One time I overheard one construction worker say to another, “He’s crazy. It may work on a blueprint, but not in reality.” The other merely shrugged. He obviously agreed but didn’t care enough to voice his doubts.

  “So what are your plans for tomorrow?” Dad asks.

  “Not much,” I say. “Have to go next door for dinner.” I’m not looking forward to it, but I try to hold on to Gramps’s word: gambaru.

  No More Spam

  As I sit at the Oyama family’s table the next evening, I wish for a moment that I was staying here instead of at my grandparents’. For one thing, all the furnishings have clean lines—no fancy scalloped edges or extras. I feel that my mind can relax; I don’t have to tie myself into knots to deflect all the physical chaos around me like at Grandma Michi’s house.

  The other thing is the food. Instead of Spam with rice, spaghetti with a side of rice, or chili on rice, dinner is a salad with fresh tomatoes and bits of basil, straight from the garden, and chicken fajitas, steaming with fat slices of green pepper, onion, and tomato. Not one grain of rice in sight.

  I’m a bottomless pit. My face doesn’t leave my plate. I keep scooping food into my mouth, my head down so I don’t have to join in their conversation, which is extremely fake polite—you know: the kind that dances like bubbles floating in the air and then pops into nothingness.

  While they eat, they don’t watch cable news and call politicians idiots, like my mother sometimes does. And they don’t make comments about their neighbors or cutting remarks about white people. Of course, that really wouldn’t make any sense here.

  There are six Oyamas around the rosewood dining table—Mrs. O, Mr. O, their two sons, and their white daughters-in-law. The two sons, Jack Jr. and Arthur, the younger one, are both engineers at different companies; Grandma Michi filled me in on that.

  It has taken me a long time to understand what engineers do, and to be honest, I’m still not absolutely clear. When I was in elementary school, I always pictured an engineer wearing striped overalls, a puffy hat, and a red scarf around his neck and standing inside a locomotive. Emilie, whose father is an engineer, corrected me. She said that engineers sit at desks and design machines, work similar to an architect’s, only with moving parts. Driving a train seems so much more exciting.

  Anyway, both of Mrs. O’s sons have the same kind of job. They even have similar short haircuts, although Jack Jr.’s hair is parted on the right; Arthur’s, the left. Neither is bad-looking for being kind of old, I guess. I mean, they’re not ugly, for sure. I like Arthur’s look a little better. He has thick, shaggy eyebrows like his father’s. He is a little less manicured, a little wild around the edges. Jack Jr., on the other hand, looks shiny and smooth, like someone scrubs him down every night.

  Jack Jr.’s wife is Sarah, the woman I met outside the house; Arthur’s is Helen. Helen is a typical freckle-faced redhead, freckles on every exposed part of her body, from her eyelids to her earlobes. I love redheads and had a crush on one in my school in Mill Valley. He didn’t have the same feelings for Asian girls, I guess.

  “Angela’s a pretty name,” Helen says, using that high-pitched voice adults reserve for children.

  I’m in a bad mood and want just to concentrate on my food. “My parents named me after Angela Davis,” I say.

  Helen then exchanges glances with her husband, and Sarah with hers. Obviously the Oyamas can’t relate to a former Black Panther who was on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted List about the time I was born.

  Mr. O seems to feel like he needs to dig into my background more. “What do your parents do?”

  “My dad’s an architect. My mom is a lawyer. Just part-time.”

  “So, not doing so bad for former radicals.” Mr. O smiles.

  “My dad went to the Green Party convention last year. I walked the precinct with him.” I like the word “precinct.” It sounds very criminal.

  Silence again. “The fajitas are good, Mom,” says Helen.

  “Yes, real tender,” Sarah echoes.

  All through the conversation, Mrs. O is quiet. I notice that she doesn’t eat much on her plate. She sits across the table from me and just stares. Everyone here seems to notice that I have somehow placed a spell on Mrs. O, and because of that, they are no doubt going to watch me very closely.

  Dueling Daughters-in-law

  After dinner, the men retreat to the living room for a baseball game on TV while the women take the dishes and the glasses to the kitchen. I stay in my chair, not quite sure where I belong.

  “No, no, I got it,” Mrs. O says, shooing her daughters-in-law back into the living room. “You all have to start on our anniversary project.” She then nods at me, and I know that that is my cue to get the folding lessons started.

  Grandma Michi has given me a fishing-tackle box filled with supplies. I take out two of her booklets and give one to each daughter-in-law.

  “I better go wash my hands,” Sarah says after reading Michi’s Tip Number 1.

  “I think my hands are clean enough
.” Helen squeezes her freckled hands and smiles faintly at me.

  When Sarah returns to the table, I notice that there is a coolness between the two women. They never seem to address each other directly and they keep their gazes on me.

  Sarah is better at folding. It is obvious that she is good at following directions. “I did it.” She waves a completed crane and it is undeniable: she has scored an A on her first try.

  Helen, on the other hand, struggles. You can see the white in all her folds, and when she’s done, the resulting paper structure looks more like a crushed Dixie cup than a bird.

  Mrs. O returns to the table to do some folding of her own. Her face is a bit greenish but her daughters-in-law are concentrating so hard on the origami that they don’t seem to notice.

  The next hour and a half passes with more of the same. Sarah is like a machine; she produces one perfect crane after another. Helen, between sighs, folds one damaged, balled-up crane after another. I can just see Grandma Michi shaking her head. We can’t use those. Unacceptable. Mrs. O, meanwhile, sits for a few minutes, breathes in the scene at the table, and then goes away somewhere else—maybe outside by the trash can again?

  It’s late, so I divide a stack of wrapped origami paper into two piles. Four hundred sheets for one daughter-in-law, and another four hundred for the other.

  “How can I make four hundred cranes on my own?” The high pitch of Helen’s voice hurts my ears. As if responding to a dog whistle, Arthur comes to her side.

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “It’s too much. I can’t do this. I never was good at crafty things.”

  I totally understand how Helen feels, but she’s making a big deal out of nothing. So she’s bad at folding cranes—join the club. At least she doesn’t have Grandma Michi grading her work. Meanwhile, Sarah has her dozens of perfect A-grade cranes lined up in front of her like military jets ready to take off. Her husband is now standing in back of her chair, and I can easily read the look on his face: My wife’s are better than your wife’s.

  “My parents could hire you to do these, right? Fold all the cranes?” Arthur says.

  I nod. I am feeling a little overwhelmed, thinking about all the cranes I will have to fold.

  Mrs. O returns to the table, and Arthur pitches his idea to her. “Mom, why don’t you have the Inuis handle the whole thing? Helen is busy with work, and so is Sarah—”

  “I don’t mind,” Sarah interrupts.

  “Well, anyway, most everyone is busy, so why don’t you let Angela do all the folding?”

  This is obviously not what Mrs. O had in mind. “We’re supposed to work on these together. Like a quilt.” Mrs. O’s voice is steady and clear.

  “Is that what this whole thing is about? Louise Takeyama’s family quilt?”

  Mrs. O frowns.

  “I saw it,” Arthur says. “It was on display at church last Sunday, right? So, is this again about how we can keep up with the Takeyamas?”

  Mrs. O’s mouth quivers. She has lines around her lips, like my grandmother, but instead of being straight and defined, they are broken and dotted. “Excuse me,” she says, leaving the table again.

  With Mrs. O’s exit comes the entrance of her husband. Even though he hasn’t been in the room until now, he knows everything that has been going on. “This isn’t about Louise Takeyama or anyone else. This is our anniversary, and you’ll make this for us. For me and your mother.” Jack Sr.’s voice takes on a serious and deep tone, a heavy blanket falling over all of us.

  At this point I figure out that the whole project really has nothing to do with the 1001 cranes or even the anniversary celebration. And that they have brought me in because they believed I wouldn’t understand what was going on below the surface. And they were right; I don’t. But I can feel that something is wrong. I’m super-sensitive right now anyway; I can smell even a whiff of conflict.

  Jack Sr. keeps talking. “So I don’t want to hear any more of it. No more monku.”

  My dad’s special word. I look up, surprised. Jack Jr. must think I need a translation. His lips have been pressed together and he finally says, “Whining. My dad is sick of whining. And I am, too.”

  His words burn in my ears, and I know that Helen must be feeling it as well. She blinks rapidly, freckles on her eyelids appearing and disappearing.

  “You’re such a jerk,” Arthur shoots back at his older brother. I then close the tackle box. I know that our first 1001-cranes folding session is over.

  I pack my things and then notice that I’m alone at the table. I don’t see Helen or Arthur. Jack Jr. and Sarah, deep in conversation, are huddled on the couch in the living room.

  I look down a hallway, where the bathroom is. The back bedroom is lit and the door is open. Mr. O is massaging Mrs. O’s shoulders. Her chin is down on her chest. “Oh, that’s where it’s sore, Jack,” she says.

  “Mom, you can’t overdo it, okay?”

  I know that Mr. O’s calling her Mom doesn’t mean he thinks Mrs. O is his mother. Gramps does the same thing, only he sometimes yells out “Grandma” when he wants Grandma Michi’s attention.

  “Oooh, there, there. That’s it,” Mrs. O says.

  I stand and watch them for another minute. Somehow, seeing Mr. O massage Mrs. O makes me feel better.

  Once I’m at my grandparents’ house, Grandma peppers me with questions. “So, what did it look like inside?”

  “Michi—” Gramps says.

  “After all these years, they never let me in. Just keep me standing in the doorway,” Grandma says.

  “It looked normal,” I say. Normal like us in Mill Valley, but maybe not Inui normal. I don’t mention anything about the tension between the two brothers and their wives. Grandma Michi would relish it, I’m sure. But for some reason I remain protective of Mrs. O. “Mrs. Oyama wants me to come back every Friday night. Have dinner with them and then help the daughters-in-law fold.”

  “Is she a good cook?”

  “Of course she’s a good cook,” Gramps says. “Remember that casserole she brought when you had your gallbladder surgery?”

  “It tasted different. Had eggplant and zucchini in it,” Janet remarks, as if there’s no other vegetable than iceberg lettuce.

  “She had a cancer before,” Grandma says.

  “They thought she was going to die,” Aunt Janet adds.

  “I think she had both breasts removed.”

  I start to feel a little sick to my stomach and tug my bra through my T-shirt.

  “Miracle she’s survived this long,” Gramps adds.

  “Well, cancer survivor or no cancer survivor,” Grandma declares, “if Ruth Oyama wants to take so much of my granddaughter’s time, she’ll have to pay extra.”

  Crazy Kawaguchi

  Gramps says that in business, when it rains, it pours. Sure enough, the next day another customer, in a suit, nylons, heels, and pearls, walks through the door of the flower shop. She tells us that her name is Lisa Kawaguchi. She comes with a bunch of extras, including a large leather Day-Timer and an assortment of high-tech gadgets.

  “I heard that you also do one-thousand-and-one-cranes displays,” she says.

  Grandma Michi gives her a once-over before speaking. She looks as if she can sense that this woman will be trouble. “Yes,” she says, and, probably against her better judgment, pulls out the 1001-cranes book.

  After glancing at every plastic-covered page in our album, the woman seems satisfied. She introduces herself, pronouncing her last name “Ka-wa-GOO-chi,” like she’s a hungry grizzly bear on a food hunt. At that moment, to me she becomes Kawaguchi rather than Lisa.

  She opens her Day-Timer to the back, releases the three metal rings to present a photocopied picture to Grandma. It is of a line of old men in black kimonos. She taps the circular design on the shoulders of their clothing. Aunt Janet told me that Japanese families wore their crests on their funeral attire. “This is my mother’s mon.” It is simple. A six-point star that resembles a
pin I used to put on my Brownie sash.

  “Fine. We can do that.” Grandma doesn’t waste any time and tells her how much it’s going to cost. Maybe she wants to scare off Kawaguchi.

  “But the design is simple.”

  But Grandma doesn’t seem like she’s going to budge.

  They go back and forth and then Kawaguchi notices Gramps’s flower arrangements. She’s impressed, looks through our wedding flowers book, and says she’ll also order a bridal bouquet and boutonnieres if Grandma gives her a break.

  The two women nod and the deal is struck.

  “I’d like a drawing of the display. Maybe on graph paper. And I’d like you to prepare a swatch.”

  “Swatch?”

  “I just want to see how the cranes will look together. And I want it in silver. You can fax or e-mail me the drawing this weekend.”

  “We don’t have a fax. And I don’t e-mail.”

  Kawaguchi puckers her lips. She wears a tangerine lipstick that doesn’t seem to smear no matter how she contorts her mouth. She presses buttons on a digital device and then flips her Day-Timer past rows and columns highlighted in neon pink, yellow, and blue. Kawaguchi’s life is neatly categorized, stacked, and color coded.

  “Well, I’ll be meeting the wedding coordinator at the Gardena Buddhist Temple on Monday. I won’t have time to come by here. Can you meet me there?”

  This is a test of wills; I can just feel it. “My granddaughter, Angela, can deliver it. It’s walking distance from here.”

  What? I think. I don’t mind being sent out from the shop, but I don’t want to deal with Kawaguchi on my own.

  Kawaguchi gives me a look. I know that she doesn’t think much of me. I don’t care, because the same goes for me about her. “I guess that will be all right,” she finally says. “Two o’clock on Monday. I’ll be in the sanctuary.”

  She then slaps her date book shut, as if warning me that there will be repercussions if I don’t show.