Cherry Blossom Winter

by Jennifer Maruno

  “Yay, Uncle Ted,” Michiko called out. Everyone in the truck bed clapped.

  “You are cheering for the wrong team,” Kiko told her with a roll of her eyes.

  The sun moved lower in the sky. No one paid much attention when Geechan stepped down from the truck. Hiro followed him and Michiko had to chase him down. “Stay here,” she said when she handed him back to her mother.

  “It’s two down and Clarence the Red has two strikes,” the announcer called out.

  The crowd went quiet.

  Clarence raised his chin and hunched his body, this time determined to give it his all.

  The third pitch was like the first two.

  Clarence bunted and raced for first, just as Geechan taught him. The catcher threw, but the baseman missed. Clarence headed for second. The ball rolled out to right field, where Mr. Hayashi fumbled it. Clarence made it to third.

  Mr. Hayashi threw the ball home but the catcher was talking to someone.

  “Head for home, head for home,” the crowd chanted.

  Clarence tripped on a lump in the field, fell and scrambled along the ground, and dove into home plate as the catcher picked up the ball.

  Applause and laughter exploded from the fans.

  “A home run all on errors?” yelled Kiko. She shook her head unbelievingly.

  “That’s Clarence,” bragged Michiko, glancing at the group of farmers off to one side. They were cheering and clapping each other on the back. She saw Bert leave the group and approach Mr. Katsumoto.

  The crowds broke up in the deepening dusk. “Who would have thought,” Michiko heard one woman say, “we would be watching baseball again.”

  “With such handsome players,” another commented.

  “The men around town have been looking for something to do,” Mrs. Morrison said, fanning herself with a piece of folded newspaper. “Maybe they can get a team together.”

  Michiko climbed down to tell Geechan the news. But as she rounded the front of the truck she gasped. Her grandfather lay face down in the dirt. Her scream brought her mother and Aunt Sadie to his side.

  Bert, Ted, and Sam raced across the grass to see what was happening. Bert tossed Mrs. Morrison’s rocking chair over the side and helped to lift Geechan into the back of truck. They covered him with Mrs. Morrison’s shawl.

  Michiko clutched Kiko’s hand as the green truck raced its way to the hospital.

  Chapter Ten

  SPLASH

  September brought the smell of dry leaves that always reminded Michiko of newly sharpened pencils. But the days of starting school with a new satchel full of coloured pencils and clean notebooks were long gone. Clarence and Michiko met at their usual spot on the bridge at the outskirts of town. Here the icy creek raced out of its forest tunnel and plunged over the rocks.

  “How’s Geechan?” he asked.

  Michiko shrugged and smiled. It was hard to explain her grandfather’s “far-offness.” His eyes glazed over when they talked. Whenever he spoke he ran out of breath before he could finish what he had to say. His jaw fell open when he slept in the chair. Sometimes his hand just dropped to his side, spilling his tea. He seemed to have no more strength than a kitten.

  The sun reflected off a brightly polished bicycle fender coming toward them. Michiko grimaced. The only good thing about seeing George was it reminded her how lucky she was to have Clarence for a friend.

  “Where ya going?” he shouted, screeching his wheels and sending up a shower of stones.

  “Where do you think?” Clarence replied. He held up his fishing rod as a hint. The cork bobber swung back and forth from the string that dangled from a tree branch.

  “You won’t catch anything with that,” mocked George. “I suppose your pretending to be Indians again.” Once Clarence fooled George by telling him Michiko was a full-blooded Kootenay. George hadn’t forgotten or forgiven.

  “Buzz off,” Clarence said as they turned up the lane that led to the orchard. They both knew George wouldn’t follow them there.

  Saturday was the day the men in the orchard left town to cut wood. They boarded the Security Commission truck under the supervision of Mr. Hayashi. Kiko passed her father his lunchbox. “At least they get to leave the orchard,” she complained to Michiko.

  “Why don’t you come with us?” Michiko asked her friend.

  “I don’t have a rod,” Kiko said.

  “We can share mine,” offered Michiko. “Just think: fresh fish for dinner.

  Kiko grinned. She waved goodbye to the truck and the three of them headed past the last of the houses into the woods.

  At the end of the street the three of them came face to face with Mr. Yama. The small wiry man crossed his arms batsu and stood in their way, glaring. The dark skin of his arms and face seemed shrivelled. His stale chocolate eyes sank deep into their red-rimmed sockets. Because of the large purple birthmark that marred half of his face, Michiko found it hard to look at him.

  The man squinted as if he could not believe who stood in front of him. “Why you hakujin here?” he shouted. He pointed a bony finger at Clarence. “What you want?” he growled.

  “Just ignore him,” Kiko said.

  “You and you,” he said, brandishing his finger at Michiko and Clarence, “ENEMY.”

  “You can’t say that,” Michiko protested, seeing Clarence’s face go slack.

  “Mr. Yama,” Kiko said, grabbing Michiko’s fishing rod. She held it up. “Michiko and I are going fishing. Be nice to her.”

  “Bah,” Mr. Yama spat out and moved aside.

  “What a miserable old guy,” Clarence said as they headed toward the lake. “He needs a drum to bang.”

  Kiko turned back and yelled, “KI-CHIGAI GEECHA.”

  Michiko shook her head. Calling Mr. Yama a crazy old man wouldn’t help anything. Michiko’s mother told them he had a lot of problems because of his face and had trouble letting go of his misery. But that wasn’t the only thing that bothered Michiko about Kiko. She should have told Mr. Yama to be nice to Clarence as well.

  They headed toward the beach. It wasn’t really a beach but a rim of sand along the lake, beaten down by the number of people that used it. The lake sat still and calm. The reflection of the tall rugged mountains was as sharp and precise as the mountains themselves. It was so still it almost seemed wrong to break the silence by talking.

  “Do we fish from here?” Kiko asked.

  Michiko shook her head. She led them along the strip of firm, damp sand. Then they scrambled through the bushes, slipping on the small, round pebbles that lined the shore.

  “Where are we going?” Kiko whined, slapping at a mosquito.

  “Wait and see,” said Clarence.

  Kiko watched Clarence and Michiko part the branches of a fallen willow. The small red rowboat nodded under an archway of greenery.

  “Wow,” Kiko exclaimed. “You have a boat? Where did you get it?”

  “My uncle made it,” Michiko told her with pride. “We call it the Apple.”

  Clarence stepped on to the fallen tree trunk, walked along it, and tossed his fishing rod into the boat. Then he returned and took Michiko’s rod. Michiko clutched Clarence’s other hand as she climbed up and followed. Kiko scrambled up and along the trunk with ease. The branches swayed in the water when she got into the boat.

  Soon they were gliding past shores of green grass. Kiko trailed her hand in the clear, cold mountain water. Michiko inhaled deeply. She loved the strong weedy smell of the lake. She could almost taste its ancientness.

  “We have a special fishing spot,” Michiko said. “But don’t tell anyone, it’s a secret.”

  “How did you find it?” Kiko asked.

  “The Indians showed us the way,” Clarence said, making Michiko laugh.

  A speckled trout rose from the water with its mouth open and snapped at a fly. Kiko clapped her hands in delight. Clarence nudged the boat toward the bank where the creek began to bend. They spent the morning drifting about the small cove surroun
ded by steep banks. Three trout soon lay at Clarence’s feet. Michiko caught several as well. Kiko didn’t even try.

  “Time to head back,” Clarence said. “No need to be greedy.”

  The three of them looked up at the sound of snapping twigs. Michiko saw a flash of a green-and-white-checked shirt at the top of the bank. Then she heard a familiar voice. “Where did you get the boat, Clarence?”

  The three of them searched the bushes with their eyes.

  George’s voice shouted out again. “Hope it’s your boat, Clarence,” he shouted. “It’s against the law for Japs to own one.”

  “We know it’s you, George,” Clarence called back. “Scared to show your face?”

  George came out from behind a large bush and stood at the edge with his hands on his hips. “I asked you a question, Peach Boy,” George shouted. “Who owns the boat?”

  Clarence and Michiko looked at each other wide-eyed.

  “I do,” Clarence shouted back.

  Kiko looked at Clarence and then at Michiko. She stood up with eyes blazing. “You couldn’t build a boat like this,” she yelled. “This is Japanese-built. It’s the best!”

  Michiko looked at her in horror. Her uncle had painted the hull rough, so no one would suspect. Normally he took the time to strain the paint twice, making it glide on like silk.

  “No, Kiko,” she insisted as a wave of panic rose inside her. “Clarence built it.” If the Security Commission found out Ted had a boat, he would be in trouble. They would think he was a spy for sure. “I watched him do it,” Michiko shouted back.

  “You’re lying,” George screamed. “You told me once boats were much better than bicycles. That uncle of yours built it, didn’t he?”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Michiko said, pulling Kiko down so hard she almost toppled over the side. They grabbed the oars and turned the boat around. But Kiko wasn’t finished. She turned to George, stuck out her tongue, and then screamed in Japanese, “BAKA, BAKA!”

  “I’ll get you,” George threatened as he took a step forward shaking his fist. But his weight on the edge of the grassy bank made it collapse. He slid down into the water.

  “Ha, ha, ha,” Kiko said as she laughed and pointed. “Look at the big fish swim.”

  But Michiko could tell by the way George was flaying about that he wasn’t swimming.

  “Clarence,” she screamed, “I don’t think George can swim.”

  George’s face rose from the rippled waters of the cove sputtering. “Help,” he wailed.

  Michiko jumped into the water. The icy cold bit right through her clothes and took her breath away. Holding on to the side of the boat, she extended her other arm to the thrashing boy. “Take my hand,” she called out to him, but she couldn’t quite reach him.

  Clarence handed Michiko an oar. “Grab the paddle, George,” he yelled.

  George clutched at the wide end of the oar with both hands. As Kiko and Clarence dragged the oar closer, Michiko grabbed the shoulder of his shirt and pulled him to the boat.

  “Hang on,” Michiko said, catching her breath, “until we reach the rocks.”

  Clarence drew the boat in. Michiko dragged George up onto a wide, warm rock. He slumped down shivering with cold and shaking with fear.

  Michiko turned on Kiko. “Why did you have to say that?” she demanded. “If he tells the Mounted Police they will take the boat.” She put her hands on her heart. “They could even take my uncle away.”

  “Okay,” Kiko responded with a shrug. “Then we’ll just dump him back in.”

  Michiko looked at Clarence in surprise.

  “Don’t,” George yelled, crawling back in terror. “Clarence, you got to save me from these Japs.”

  Clarence’s eyes narrowed. “Why should I?”

  George sucked in his breath.

  In a quiet voice, Michiko spoke to the soaking, scared boy. “You better keep this boat a secret if you don’t want enemies for real.” She waved her hand toward the exposed roots of the river bank. “You can climb back up over there.”

  George scrambled to the top of the bank. His face crumpled as he stood watching them row away. “It’s not fair,” he sobbed. “Clarence has all kinds of brothers and sisters.” He wiped the water from his face. “I don’t have any friends at all.”

  “Then you should remember this Japanese saying,” Michiko called out to him. “Always beware of the returning arrow.”

  Chapter Eleven

  THE TELEGRAM

  The maple trees on Main Street made the papery rustle of autumn. It was a nice day for October, but it was way before suppertime and the sky was already getting dark. The wind prowled about Michiko and Kiko’s feet like a cat, reminding them that winter was on its way. Each carried a large brown paper bundle up the road. Where they walked, green, spiked balls and shiny black nuts littered the woodsy yards.

  “I hate walking home in the dark,” Kiko whispered. “I wish I had a flashlight.”

  If I had a flashlight, Michiko thought, I would read in bed. But like everything else, it cost money. “It will be okay,” Michiko reassured her, “Mrs. Morrison promised us a ride back.”

  They approached the large wooden house with scrolls of woodwork around the front verandah. Yellow leaves covered the woodsy lawn. In the summer you could hardly see the Morrison’s house for honeysuckle and clematis. Now a cloud of dead branches and leaves, still attached to the lattice, rattled in the wind.

  Michiko put down her bundle and pushed open the gate. They mounted the wide wooden steps and knocked. The door was partly open.

  “That’ll be the girls,” Mrs. Morrison boomed out from the kitchen. She had such a large voice they could hear it on the verandah.

  A tall woman in a long-sleeved black blouse, black skirt, stockings, and stout black shoes bustled toward them. Her skinny red nose looked as if it had been in a pencil sharpener. Seeing Michiko and Kiko the woman stopped suddenly, making the eye glasses on a chain around her neck bounce. “Are you the girls from town?” she asked in a sharp, vinegary voice. Her lips puckered in disapproval.

  Michiko felt her face redden. When you are at home or school, you forget about being Japanese, she thought. But when people look at you the way this woman does, you remember.

  “Give Mabel your coats,” Edna boomed from the kitchen. “I’m up to my elbows.”

  Michiko placed her mittens and hat on the small table beside the door.

  Kiko had come without.

  Mabel shook each coat before hanging it up, as if she expected something to fall out.

  “We’re just kids,” Michiko wanted to call out after her. “We are not spies.” Instead she adjusted the blouse under her navy blue jumper. Her freshly ironed, long-sleeved white blouse had mother-of-pearl buttons that turned blue and pink in different lights.

  Kiko paused in the doorway of the living room. She stared at the couch, Persian rug, pictures on the wall, and the heavy bronze lamp with the green fringed shade. Kiko placed her hand on the dark wood banister of the staircase that led to the second floor and glanced up. Michiko could tell by the look on her face that she wanted to explore.

  The girls entered the kitchen to see Mrs. Morrison’s pudgy fingers rolling out soft yellow pastry dough. She was a wide woman, and her white apron made her even wider.

  “What kind of pie are you making?” Michiko asked.

  Edna Morrison paused with the rolling pin in the centre of the flattened circle. “It wouldn’t be a Thanksgiving without mincemeat pies,” she bragged. “This is the last for today.”

  “What kind of meat do you put in?” Michiko asked.

  “None,” Mrs. Morrison said with a smile. “It’s really just a fruit pie.”

  Kiko gave the dark mixture of raisins, apples, and pears in the earthenware bowl a stir. “So, there is no meat in a mincemeat pie.” She repeated it as if to store the information.

  Edna folded the circle of dough in half and slid it into the pie pan. “Why don’t you two run downstairs an
d get a jar of jam from the shelf.” She dipped her head in the direction of the door that led to the basement.

  The two girls made their way down to the dank room of cinder-block walls and earthen floor. A single bare light bulb cast harsh shadows on the walls, a silver cobweb glistening from its enamel collar. A large shelf of filled jars sat between the wringer washer and the furnace.

  Preserves of pallid pears, golden peaches, and crimson crabapples filled the top shelf. The bottom shelf was full bread and butter, mustard, and dill pickles. Michiko reached out to the middle shelf lined with jars of peach, strawberry, gooseberry, and black current jam.

  “What kind do you want?’ she asked.

  Kiko shrugged. “I’ve only ever tasted strawberry,” she confessed.

  “Then try something new,” Michiko suggested, reaching for a jar of golden yellow.

  “It’s such a big house,” Kiko whispered to Michiko. “Does she live here all by herself?”

  Michiko nodded. “This is where Mrs. Morrison grew up. After her parents died, she and her husband came here to live. But then he went off to war.”

  “Now tell me all about your plans for Christmas,” Mrs. Morrison asked, heading for the kitchen sink with her arms in the air when the girls returned to the kitchen. “Is your class having a party?”

  Michiko and Kiko glanced at each other. No one had said anything about a party. “Maybe we should suggest it,” Michiko said to her friend.

  “The school Christmas party was the highlight of the year when I was young,” Mrs. Morrison reminisced. She gave the handle of the water tap a nudge with her elbow. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Will one of you undo my watch?”

  Kiko raced to Mrs. Morrison’s assistance. She undid the clasp of the tiny gold strap, letting the watch fall into her hand. “It’s so delicate,” she said.

  “Just an old thing,” Mrs. Morrison said. “Put it on top of the mantel.” Reaching for the sliver of yellow soap by the sink, she told Michiko to stick some slices of bread into the toaster. “Jam on toast always brightens up a dreary day,” she said with a smile.