Cherry Blossom Baseball

by Jennifer Maruno

  “Bus students eat lunch in the art room across the hall,” Miss Barnhart told her at the beginning of the lunch break. Michiko removed the lunch sack from her desk and walked to the room across the hall. A handful of students sat at the large, wide tables. She went to the end.

  “What farm are you from?” a small, shrill voice called out to her from across the room.

  Michiko looked up.

  A young girl wearing a faded chequered dress spoke to her from the doorway. Her tousled yellow hair reminded Michiko of a dandelion. “If you eat in the lunchroom, you hafta live on a farm, right?”

  Michiko nodded as she unwrapped her cheese sandwich and raised it to her mouth.

  “She probably doesn’t speak any English,” someone said, “like the Eye-ties.”

  Michiko put down her sandwich. “My family lives on the flower farm owned by Mr. Downey,” she said to no one in particular.

  “That’s right across the road from our place,” a boy’s voice said.

  Michiko turned to the blond boy in a plaid shirt and faded jeans. His sandwich bread showed bright against his dirty fingernails. He was in her class, but she wasn’t sure of his name.

  “Where the cows are?” she asked.

  “Yep,” the boy said. “But it’s not a whole herd, it’s just a few head for our own use. We get to drink all the milk we want.”

  “My little brother likes cows,” Michiko said.

  “Bring him over,” the boy said. “He can help me milk them.”

  Michiko smiled, remembering the time Hiro tried to help Mrs. Morrison milk her goat. More milk ended up on him than in the pail.

  The little girl who had first spoken to her left her table and went to the boy in the plaid shirt. Michiko noticed the hem of her dress was beginning to unravel. Her faded socks puddled around her ankles.

  “Ask her where’s she’s from,” her small voice insisted.

  “Meet my nosy sister,” the boy said. “Her name is Annie. Mine’s William, but everybody calls me Billy, Billy Agar.”

  “I’m Mich—” she began to say but stopped. The principal had introduced her as Millie, and she might as well go back to it. “I’m Millie,” she said before taking another bite of her sandwich.

  A bit later, Annie followed Michiko out on to the playground, but Michiko didn’t want to be bothered with this little girl; she wanted to watch the group of boys tossing a baseball around the diamond. She moved in their direction and sat down on the nearby swing. Billy was pitching. He seems to have a good arm, she thought.

  Annie hopped onto the swing beside her and twisted herself around until the chains were tight. Then she spun round.

  A small group of girls from her classroom formed a huddle near the door. Soon they were pointing at her. Michiko noticed that none of them were interested in the baseball game.

  The shrill tweet of a factory whistle startled her, and she stopped pumping.

  “We’re supposed to go in when the whistle blows,” Annie said as the boys in the field moved toward the door.

  Michiko leapt from the swing and ran for the doors. She’d have to find out how to get on the team.

  THE TRAVELLING GROCERY TRUCK

  Hannah’s small cry brought her mother’s footsteps into the room across the hall, but it was too early for Michiko to get up. She rolled over to face the wall. Then she remembered Mr. Downey had promised to take them to the basket factory and threw back the covers.

  Her father took his shirt from the ironing board, pulled it on, and buttoned it up. Michiko wondered at times why he bothered with a shirt at all. Within minutes it would be off, and he would work the rest of the day in his singlet. She could see the tanned outline of it when he washed at night. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the percolator on the stove.

  “You drink coffee?” Michiko asked in amazement.

  “Boss drinks it,” he said, taking a small sip and grimacing.

  “I think you’re supposed to add milk and sugar,” Michiko said, “like Mrs. Morrison.”

  Sam opened the door of the refrigerator and removed a small bottle of milk. “Welcome to the land of milk and honey,” he said, as he changed the black surface of his drink to a soft brown. He lifted the lid of the glass bowl and spooned out some sugar. He took a second small sip and pursed his lips. “Better,” he said.

  Her father’s summer work of cutting and delivering flowers would soon be over as they moved into the fall season. He told her that his next job would be digging up the bulbs and sorting them. Mr. Downey sold all his gladiola bulbs for thirty-five cents a dozen, or three dollars for a hundred, all but those that went back into the ground and the ones from the plant that won him first prize each year in the annual show. Her mother had pointed out the row of first prize silver vases that stood along Mr. Downey’s mantle.

  As they stepped out the front door, the rumbling of an old delivery truck made her father smile. Naggie Fujioka had kept his promise and stopped his travelling grocery truck on the way to Niagara Falls. Her mother came out of the house clutching Hannah with one arm and her purse in the other. Hiro followed.

  “Welcome, new people,” the driver of the truck said as he jumped from the cab and waved his arms about. “I know all Japanese families in Great Golden Horseshoe.” Naggie opened the truck’s wide back doors and pulled down a wooden step for them to mount.

  Michiko liked the idea of living in a golden horseshoe. It sounded so much better than ghost town.

  “Come in, come in,” the thin Japanese man repeated, giving a huge smile of dark gums and broken teeth. His sleek, flat head and narrow eyes reminded Michiko of a weasel. He wore a white shirt rolled to the elbows. His dark baggy pants, shiny from too much wear, clung to his thin, marble-like knees.

  Eiko took a deep, purposeful breath and mounted the steps carrying her purse. Michiko and Hiro followed her into the dim interior of the truck. They were immediately assailed by the acrid odours of raw fish, overripe vegetables, and musty dried mushrooms. Hiro made a face and climbed back outside. For a fleeting minute Michiko felt sad, remembering these kinds of smells from her visits to her grandparents on Powell Street.

  The slanted bins that ran along one side of the truck held the kind of vegetables her family liked: bean sprouts, bok choy, nappa, and the hairy roots of ginger and white radish. Below the bins, open wooden barrels held different coloured beans. A large tub filled with lumps of creamy white tofu and one of red bean paste sat at the back. Huge stacks of rice sat at the sides. Cast iron skillets, pails, and scrub brushes hung from nails on the wall behind.

  On the opposite side of the truck, shelves held packages of noodles, green leaf tea, sesame seeds, and crackers. The shelf below held assorted tins, bottles of shoyu, and vinegars. Below the shelves were large ice chests, painted with black Japanese letters.

  Her mother lifted the lid of one of the ice chests; several fish lay on top.

  “You like eel?” the man asked after she put the lid down. “Eel good price today,” he said, pointing to the chest beside it. “Also have,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “shrimp and oyster.”

  “A couple of those mackerels will do,” her mother said as she moved to the shelves.

  Michiko lined up her mother’s purchases on the small counter next to a metal scale and cash register. Next to the ginger root that reminded Michiko of a little old man, she placed a long head of wrinkly cabbage, a small bag of dried mushrooms, and a package of dried seaweed. A large chunk of white tofu floated in a small pail of water. Next to that were a bottle of soya sauce, a ball of miso in wax paper, and a jar of pickled plums.

  “The plums are for your father,” Eiko said with a grimace after the shopkeeper placed them on the counter. She spotted a stack of small bars of soap wrapped in rice paper and put her fingers to her mouth in thought. Then she reached out, took one, and placed it on the counter. “This will be for me.”

  Michiko lifted the soap to her nose. Her aunt Sadie always smelled of flowers, a fragran
ce that often stayed behind after she had left the room. The soap’s familiar sandalwood fragrance brought her a sense of contentment.

  “First time I charge for pail and tofu,” the grocer said as he calculated the cost. “Next time you bring pail and just pay for tofu.” He gave a huge grin of broken teeth and said, “I no charge for water.”

  “Don’t forget we owe you for a bag of rice,” Eiko said, opening her purse.

  “You not worry,” the man said. He put on a pair of small, round glasses and flipped through a worn leather journal next to the cash register. “I have husband’s name in book.”

  “You can cross it out,” Eiko said as she placed several one-dollar bills on the counter. “We keep our accounts paid.”

  The man shrugged and reached for the pencil behind his ear.

  Her father peeked through the door. “Ready to head out?”

  Oakville Wood Specialities, a brick and concrete building sheathed in corrugated metal, sat beside railroad tracks surrounded by piles of logs. Trails of white steam rose from several roof stacks as they approached. Even though it was Saturday morning, the factory teemed with workers. Men moved back and forth, loading the boxcars.

  “Mr. Downey,” Michiko asked, “how many baskets do you need?”

  “I’m here for the sawdust,” he said. “We’ll be needing plenty of that soon, for the bulbs. I get a good price on firewood too. They’re happy to get rid of the cores after the veneer is gone. “

  Mr. Downey led Michiko and her father up the gravelled drive to the main building. “All the baskets are made by hand,” he said. He greeted a short, dark-haired man with a handshake. “Hello, Hank,” he said. “Mind if these folks have a look around?”

  Hank wore a diamond-patterned wool vest over his long-sleeved shirt. His scuffed work boots seemed out of place with his well-creased flannel pants.

  “Go on in,” he said, looking Sam up and down. “You looking for work?”

  Mr. Downey gave the man a small jab with his elbow. “Knock it off,” he said and then turned to Sam. “Most of the young men don’t want to spend their life working on a farm,” he said. “Between this factory and the war, it’s hard to find men to work the fields.”

  Michiko couldn’t help but think of her Uncle Ted. He was always interested in anything made of wood, and Uncle Kaz was having a great deal of trouble finding the right job. If they got both got jobs at the basket factory, the whole family could be together again. “We know some people …” she said, but Sam grabbed her hand. The pressure he put on her fingers told her he was unhappy with her interruption. “This is adult business,” he said to her in a low voice. “You stick to kid business.”

  The four of them stepped through the large-planked doors that stood ajar. Inside, dust motes danced through the rays of sunshine that rested on the heads of the men working at tables.

  Several worked at a machine shaving logs into long thin strips. It reminded Michiko of her mother preparing potatoes. Others carried bundles of the peeled wood to a huge vat of steaming water. Men at a long work table shaped wet strips over small wooden blocks and hammered in tacks. Then they positioned a strip of wood along the top edge and stapled it.

  “Even though berry season is over,” Hank said, as he picked up a small box with a wide square opening, “we got to keep up the stock.” He turned the box over, examined its base, nodded, and handed it back.

  They moved to the men at the next table. For several minutes, Michiko watched the workers mould pieces of veneer over metal forms. It’s as if they are doing origami with wood, she thought to herself. After adding a solid oval piece to the bottom and stapling inner and outer bands to the top, another sweet-smelling wooden basket joined the pile.

  “I’ll take my usual order of six quarts for my apple crop,” Mr. Downey said. “And I’ll need some pints for my strawberries.”

  “I’ll put it on your bill,” Hank replied as they moved from the factory to the office of the assistant general manager. On the wall behind his desk was a framed photograph of a warplane.

  “See that, Sam?” Mr. Downey said. “The factory produces veneer for propellers as well. It’s doing its part for this darn war.”

  Sam barely glanced at the photograph. Michiko knew he did not want to be reminded of the war that had removed them from their home.

  Mr. Downey gave his order for winter wood and sawdust. He stuffed his copy into his back pocket and turned to them. “Now,” he said, “we can get your wife a basket.” He strode off toward a set of wooden stairs that led up the side of the building.

  Sitting in a dusty corner on the second floor of the factory were two wooden benches. On one sat a set of simple tools. On the other was a small, thin man.

  “I could have picked you up a basket myself,” Mr. Downey said. “But I thought you would like to meet Mr. Takahashi. Market baskets are his speciality.”

  The Japanese man on the bench rose slowly, brushed the knees of his pants, wiped his fingers on a cloth, and extended his hand to her father.

  Sam took the man’s hand in both of his and pumped it up and down. “Happy to meet you,” he said with a large grin.

  Michiko held her breath. Will they begin to speak Japanese? If they do, will it be all right, or will my father get in trouble?

  “I think,” Mr. Downey said, “it would be easier for both of you to speak in private, if you know what I mean.” He looked at Michiko, winked, and left.

  Michiko’s father grinned from ear to ear as he launched into a lengthy spatter of Japanese words that were returned with equal enthusiasm and speed. It seemed as if they would talk forever, until Mr. Takahashi moved to his place on the empty bench and to Michiko’s great surprise grabbed a handful of tacks from the bucket at his feet and tossed them into his mouth.

  She watched the small Japanese man shape and weave several splints of wood around a rectangular block of wood, tacking them neatly in place with his hammer. Mr. Takahashi’s hand moved from his mouth to the basket so fast, it was as if he was a machine himself. Using a small set of shears, he nipped the edges of the splints to make them even and attached two more strips of wood for trim. These were of darker and heavier veneer than the woven bed.

  After he attached the handle, Mr. Takahashi spat the last of the tacks into his hand, tossed them back into the bucket, and handed Michiko the basket.

  She ran her hand across the bottom and along the insides and then put it over her arm. Michiko knew how much her mother valued handmade items that showed care and precision. “Arigato,” she said quietly.

  Mr. Takahashi gave a bouncing kind of nod and smiled.

  Sam reached into his pocket and removed several dollar bills, but Mr. Takahashi waved his hands about his head, refusing to touch them. Her father and the basket maker argued back and forth in Japanese until Sam put the money away. They shook hands and spoke some more. Michiko had absolutely no idea what was discussed, but she had not seen her father smile as long or as broadly in a very long time.

  That night, Michiko waited in anticipation as her mother filled their bowls with hot rice and placed a strip of steaming fish on top.

  “Itadakimasu,” she whispered before they began their meal. Sam and Michiko repeated it.

  Her father ate with steady concentration. The only sound in the room was the click of wooden chopsticks against their bowls, until Hiro’s face twisted when his father offered him a fish eye and they all burst into laughter.

  JAP GIRL

  The morning air was crisp but not cold — a perfect fall day. The breeze that brushed Michiko’s hair brought the smells of damp earth, wet grass, and fading flowers. She gathered her coat tightly to her neck as she walked to the top of the lane for the school bus. At least she didn’t have to walk all the way; a real school bus picked her up, not an old truck with benches in the back.

  Tall and slim, like a gladiola stalk, Michiko often stared in the bathroom window wondering when she was going to produce buds. Everything she owned was too small.
Even the sleeves of her coat were halfway up her arms. She wished she had a white wool coat like the one Mary wore to school. Michiko loved the way the large pleat at the back swung when Mary walked.

  “Thank goodness for my sewing machine,” her mother had said that morning with a deep sigh. “Everything will have to be adjusted.”

  Michiko knew what her mother really meant. No new clothes to anticipate. And there was no use going through the Eaton’s catalogue talking about all the clothes she’d like to order, the way she used to do with Aunt Sadie. Her mother had no time to listen.

  At breakfast, Michiko had watched her father as he looked through the newspaper before heading out into the fields, to see if he was still angry. It was so unfair, she thought. One of Hiro’s favourite games was holding onto a tree branch, pulling his legs up and flipping over the branch. Her father had caught her playing this game in her skirt and sent her to her room to think about behaving like a lady.

  Seeing a windfall, she picked up the apple and pitched it into the orchard. It soared across the grass and hit the gnarled trunk of an old apple tree. What she wouldn’t give to have a pair of overalls like the ones Clarence wore, but girls around here didn’t even wear slacks to school, let alone farm clothes. Overalls and running shoes were the two things she wanted more than anything else in the world.

  Michiko pulled her new Hilroy exercise book to her chest for warmth. The cover had a drawing of a German plane crashing into the sea. In the drawing, the pilot was escaping by parachute, but the boys in her class filled their notebook covers with drawings of planes shooting at him, with drops of blood dripping to an ocean full of sharks.

  Annie waved to her from the bus window as it pulled up. Today she wore a knitted cone-shaped hat with a red pom-pom on the top. Michiko knew the little girl would leave her seat to sit beside her, as she did every day.

  “Do you like my hat?” was the first thing Annie asked. “My mom made it.”