Cherry Blossom Baseball

by Jennifer Maruno

  Back in September, Michiko had told herself that friends weren’t that important because she had her family, coloured pencils and a sketch pad, and a whole library of books in town, but on a day like today, with all this snow, all she could think of was sliding down the mountain on empty rice bags with Kiko and the snowball fights she and Clarence had with George.

  Michiko wanted to get to know the girl she sat beside much better. Michiko liked Mary’s polite ways and neat appearance. She had a perfect cupid’s-bow mouth, straight white teeth, a small snub nose, and bouncy curls. Mary wasn’t perfect in every way, because she was a bit of a scatterbrain, always losing or forgetting things. Most times when the teacher was talking, she was staring off into space. But Carolyn Leahey seemed to be in charge of who made friends with whom in her class, and she had made it clear to all the girls right from the first day that Michiko was to be ignored.

  “Did you sleep well?” her father asked.

  Michiko nodded.

  “I went out like a lightning!” he said, making Michiko smile at his English, like whenever he referred to his “cold feets.”

  She placed her bowl in front of her. Then she planted her elbows on either side, settled her face in her hands, and released a great sigh.

  “What’s the matter?” Her father tilted his head to contemplate her.

  “Nothing,” she said. There was no point in telling him how Dorothy winced and waved her hand in front of her nose as if Michiko’s odour was too much to bear, or Sharon knocked Michiko’s books off her desk. Once, while glaring at her, Carolyn had jabbed the point of her compass into Michiko’s new dictionary, making a hole. That gesture was meant to be a threat.

  It wasn’t any better on the playground, either. A large girl named Leslie loved to yell “Mount Fuji!” and dump snow down the back of her neck.

  Her father would only tell her to ignore it, which she tried to do, but it was getting harder and harder every day. Yesterday she’d found a cartoon drawing of a slant-eyed person with large buck teeth inside her desk.

  “Everything okay at school?” he asked. He glanced at the calendar posted on the kitchen wall, where REPORT CARD DAY was written. “You gonna get good marks?”

  Michiko nodded as she lifted her spoon to her mouth.

  Eiko appeared in the kitchen, carrying Hannah. “The snow’s supposed to stop by noon,” she said, sitting to dress the baby in her woollen clothes. “Have you shovelled a path?”

  “Few minutes,” her father said, pulling his coat from the hook by the door. Mr. Palumbo, in his black beret and huge sheepskin coat, was already clearing the snow from his front walk.

  After breakfast, Michiko washed their bowls and sat down at the table with her sketchpad. With a few quick strokes she drew the shape of her brother’s head, his short cap of hair, and small nose as he looked out the window. Her father cleared the lane with a plough attached to the farm truck. The great piles of snow reminded her of the British Columbia mountains. Michiko stuffed her triple-socked feet into her black boots with their huge teeth-like treads. She would show Hiro how to make a snowman.

  Mr. Palumbo crossed the yard just as she was attempting to place the head on top of the other two giant snowballs. With a smile, he took the oddly shaped ball of snow from her arms and positioned it on top. Then he doffed his hat to the sculpture and said, “Buon giorno.”

  Michiko giggled. “How do you say thank you in Italian?”

  “Grazie,” he replied with a grin that made his big round eyes look doggy.

  “Grazie,” Michiko repeated with a smile.

  She and Hiro found sticks for the arms in the woodpile and wizened apples in the shed for the snowman’s face. A large stalk of undersized Brussels sprouts stuck out of the compost heap. Michiko gave it a great tug. Brussels sprout buttons would be perfect. By the time they finished, the snow had stopped falling, red streaks had appeared in the sky, and miso soup waited for them on the stove.

  Michiko picked Hannah up from her pink blanket on the floor of the living room. “Come and see our new family friend,” she said. She took her sister to the window to wave at the snowman. Too bad we can’t keep him, Michiko thought. But just like all the other friends in my life, he won’t last.

  The next day, although it was cold, the roads and schools were open.

  “You should all be very proud of yourselves,” Mrs. McIntosh said as she passed out the first batch of letters addressed to the Pen Pal Club. “By the look of this pile of correspondence, the boys overseas were more than happy to hear from you.” She stopped in front of Michiko and smiled. “You did especially well,” she said, placing three envelopes on the desk.

  One envelope was addressed in large, loopy letters that reminded her of a circus. Another had tall, thin letters that leaned like grass in the wind. The third’s writing was small and sloppy, with blobs of ink. She couldn’t decide which one to open first, feeling that she would somehow slight the other two with her choice. She picked them up, made a fan, and turned to the girl beside her. “Pick one for me,” she said. The girl looked about the room as if to seek approval, shrugged, and pulled an envelope.

  Dear Millie, the letter began, only the letters were so thin and tight together, it could have been Molly or Maggie.

  I received your letter last week. How kind of you to write to me. This far away from home you sometimes get the feeling everyone has forgotten about you. I can hardly remember when we weren’t at war. All last week we had blackened faces and hands as we did night patrols. Every time the moon came out from behind the clouds, the sergeant hissed, “Face down,” and we lay along the brow of a hill. Some guys ended up lying down in the rocky bed of a stream. We had to stay there for some time waiting for cloud cover, and a couple of the guys fell asleep. They got into trouble for that, I can tell you. The patrols paid off, though, because we are moving camp in the morning.

  Know anything about baseball? Is it true the St. Louis Browns have a one-armed man on the team? See if you can find out his name, if it’s true. The news is so old and mixed up by the time it gets to us, one never knows if it’s a joke or not.

  I look forward to hearing from you again.

  Gerald

  Michiko folded the letter along its crease and slipped it back into the envelope. She hadn’t heard about the one-armed baseball player, but she knew who to ask. She decided to read them all before answering and opened another envelope. Large, loopy writing filled the pages.

  Dear Millie,

  I received your letter last week. I’d heard of soldiers receiving letters from strange girls but didn’t think I’d get one. The Red Cross said to put our name down, and so I did.

  I just got back from having my first haircut and bath in six weeks. We had been camped out in a house that had no windows or roof, which isn’t pleasant when it rains. One good thing is that it was out of artillery range, so at least a guy could sleep straight through when not on night patrol. We are not allowed to tell you where we are.

  I got a roll of newspapers with this letter and some of the guys are mad at the way the reporters keep saying it’s almost over. They shouldn’t be telling that to our side, they should be telling the Jerries. One headline said the enemy is short of guns, but if you were here you’d know that wasn’t true. Once this show ends, I guess we will be giving it to the Japs.

  Michiko gave out a small gasp but read on. Send me your picture so I can show the guys.

  Your army buddy, Johnny

  Michiko gave a wry smile at the last line. Send him my picture? She could just imagine what Johnny and his friends would say to a picture of a Japanese girl, but that didn’t matter anyway because she didn’t have one. Cameras in the hands of Japanese people had been forbidden for years. Mrs. Morrison had taken the last picture of her family at Sadie’s wedding, and if she even had a copy of that photograph, it would mean sending this soldier a whole family of “Japs.” She shivered at the thought of his reaction. Michiko refolded the letter, put it in its envelope, a
nd reached for the last one.

  This envelope was spattered with blobs of ink.

  Dear Millie,

  The ink blot after the comma was huge. The writer drew an arrow from it to the next line.

  This pen is lousy, so please excuse the scratchings and ink blotches. My fountain pen is somewhere at the bottom of the English Channel. This was all that the Red Cross had to offer. So I am stuck.

  Is rationing serious in Canada? I haven’t seen a steak for months. Clothing is scarce as well, which is why we spend so much time in uniform. Some guys even get married in them.

  I don’t have a lot to say, but you can write and ask me questions. Don’t ask about where I am, though. Even if I try to tell you, the censors will block it out.

  Francis

  Michiko picked up the fountain pen with the name and phone number of the gladioli farm that sat in the little trough at the top of her desk. Mr. Downey gave them to his customers. Surely he could spare one for a soldier.

  “Do you have an extra pencil?” Mary whispered to her the next morning. Her shiny, curly hair seemed to dance about the shoulders of her white angora sweater.

  Michiko nodded. She handed one across the aisle and watched it clatter to the floor as Mary dropped it. Michiko picked it up and handed it to her again.

  “Thanks,” Mary said. “I forgot mine at home.”

  Mary didn’t have her arithmetic book either and asked if she could share. Michiko pushed her desk over and opened her text.

  “I usually forget to bring it home,” Mary confessed. “Then I forget to bring it back.”

  Michiko shrugged.

  “I’m staying for lunch today,” Mary whispered, “because of the snow.”

  “You can eat with me,” Michiko offered, trying not to sound too eager.

  Mary gave a quick glace over her shoulder. She didn’t have to say anything else. Carolyn had already made plans for her.

  When Michiko entered the lunch room, the noise of scraping chairs and children talking told her a lot of students had decided not to push their way home through the drifts. Some sat on the floor with their backs to the wall.

  “Over here,” Annie called out as she waved from her brother’s side. “I saved you a seat.”

  Across from them sat Carolyn, Sharon, and Mary.

  Michiko plunked her library book on top of the table and her furoshiki on top.

  “Look at that,” Carolyn said, opening her pink tin lunchbox. “Millie’s got a hobo sack.”

  Annie looked at the girl with flashing eyes. “It is not,” she said. “It’s a furshopiki!”

  Michiko smiled at the little girl’s mispronunciation.

  “All you need is a stick, and you can carry it across your shoulder,” Sharon said.

  Michiko lifted her lunch bundle and shoved her library book to one side.

  “What’s this?” Carolyn asked, seeing the tip of a sheet of paper sticking out from between the pages. She extended a hand of badly painted fingernails.

  Michiko pulled the book back just as Carolyn’s fingers caught hold of the edge of the paper. She waved the folded paper about in front of her face. “Is it a love note?” Carolyn looked at Billy, who munched away on his sandwich. “Billy, are you putting love notes into Millie’s library books?”

  Annie looked at her brother in astonishment.

  “Shut up, Carolyn,” Billy said through a mouthful of bread and jam.

  “Millie and Billy sitting in a tree,” Carolyn chanted.

  Sharon joined in, “K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

  Mary took the paper from Carolyn, opened it, and gasped.

  “Is it really a love note?” Sharon asked with glee.

  “It’s beautiful,” Mary said, turning the paper for all to see. “Did you draw it?”

  Carolyn leaned in. Her eyes went from the sketch to Michiko and back again with the unblinking attention of a hawk watching a mouse. “You copied it from a magazine,” she said.

  Michiko reached across the table and took the sketch back. “It’s my little brother.” She turned the paper for Annie to see. “He was watching the snow plough when I drew it.”

  Annie took the drawing and held it out for Billy to see.

  “I’ve seen her little brother,” Billy told Carolyn. “It looks just like him.”

  “Can I have it?” Annie asked.

  Michiko shook her head, took the folded the paper, and put it back inside the book. “It’s just a sketch,” she said. “When I get some paints, I’m going to finish it.”

  “You should ask the teacher if you can work on it in art class,” Mary said. “It’s good.”

  “Too good,” Carolyn said, packing up her half-eaten lunch. “She traced it.”

  Michiko’s cheeks burned red, but she felt a tingle of excitement knowing Mary liked her drawing. If she could just find a way to spend time with her without Carolyn around. She opened her package of wax paper and removed a rice ball.

  “Ugh,” Carolyn said. “What are you eating?”

  Michiko placed a tiny white ball rolled in sesame seeds in the palm of her hand for all to see.

  “Get it away,” Carolyn shouted as she shoved her metal lunch pail across the table.

  Michiko’s rice balls bounced and scattered across the floor, and her apple rolled under a chair.

  “Oops,” Carolyn said. “Gotta go.” She leaped from the table. Sharon followed, and they both went out the door.

  Michiko stared at what was left of her lunch sitting in her hand.

  Annie retrieved the apple, blew on it, and placed it in front of Michiko. “She did that on purpose,” she said. “Carolyn’s mean.”

  Mary lifted the wax paper that held the other half of her sandwich. “Here,” she said, offering it to Michiko. “It’s just peanut butter.”

  Not wanting to confess she had never tasted peanut butter, Michiko smiled and took it with thanks.

  “Do you have to go straight home?” Michiko asked Mary at the end of the school day.

  “French lessons on Monday, piano lessons on Tuesday, dance lessons on Wednesday, Four H Club on Thursday,” Mary said, counting each out on a finger.

  “Wow,” was all Michiko could say.

  “I gotta run,” Mary said. “My piano teacher will be waiting.”

  Michiko glanced at her coat hook. “You forgot your scarf,” she said, holding it out to her.

  “Thanks,” Mary said, turning back. “My mother says I’d forget my head if it wasn’t fastened on.” She wound the scarf about her neck.

  Michiko turned back to her hanger to get her coat. On the shelf above Mary’s hook sat a familiar brown envelope. She picked up Mary’s report card and placed it on the teacher’s desk. She couldn’t imagine going home without her report card. Her parents would be so furious they’d make her walk all the way back to school to get it.

  STRAIGHT AS

  Michiko watched as her mother opened her report card. She knew she had As in Science, Arithmetic, Grammar, History, Geography, and Art. It was Physical Education she was worried about. Michiko’s throat went dry as her mother studied the mark and the comments.

  “Michiko needs to better apply herself on the equipment,” Eiko read out loud.

  “What equipment?” her father asked. He put down the gardening manual he was studying. She couldn’t help noticing how scratched and blistered his hands had become. Michiko looked down at her lap. At first she had been excited to see mats, parallel bars, and the balance beam. Miss Barnhart named each piece of equipment as an older student demonstrated how to use it. The long leather structure, she learned, was called a pommel horse. But every Friday, while the rest of the girls put on their canvas running shoes, Michiko had to remove her shoes and socks in order to participate. Not only was she cold, the wooden springboard was cracked in several places, and she was terrified of getting a splinter.

  “What’s wrong?” Mary asked the first time Michiko came to a sudden halt at the bottom of the board. “All you have to do is run u
p to it, bounce, and jump over. Watch.”

  Mary ran up to the board, bounced, and soared over the horse.

  The rest of the girls took their turns.

  Michiko willed herself to run across the gym floor, but the minute her bare feet touched the edge of the rough wood, she stopped.

  “It won’t bite you,” Carolyn called out. “It’s not a real horse.”

  “That’s enough,” Miss Barnhart called out, but not before the rest of the class laughed.

  “Gymnastics equipment,” Michiko said to her parents, coming out of her reverie. “Vaulting over a pommel horse is hard,” she complained. “My body doesn’t want to do it.”

  “Any grade below A is not acceptable,” her mother said sternly. She put the report back into its envelope.

  “If I had a pair of running shoes …” Michiko began, but her mother put up her hand.

  “Shoes don’t have magical properties,” she said. “You need to make an effort, just as the teacher says. I expect a big improvement.”

  Mary was waiting for Michiko when she got off the school bus the next day. “I need to talk to you,” she said, taking Michiko’s arm. To her surprise, Mary led her across the playground to where Carolyn waited with Nancy.

  “We can work at each other’s houses after school,” Carolyn was saying. On seeing Michiko approach, she lowered her schoolbooks and rolled her eyes. “She lives way out on some stupid farm, the very last stop on the bus route.”

  Billy’s is the last stop, Michiko thought but didn’t bother to correct her.

  “We want you to work with us on our project,” Mary said.

  Carolyn shot Mary a look of annoyance.

  Michiko’s eyes widened with surprise. “You do?”

  “You are an artist,” Mary said, drawing her closer into the group. “Of course we want you. That’s why we’re asking before we get into class.”

  Michiko was still in a state of disbelief when they moved into the classroom. She had fully expected to be working on her own.