The boys stopped talking to look at her.
Out of the corner of her eye, Michiko saw the man in the blue suit, wearing his brimmed hat low on his brow, getting out of his car. Realizing it wasn’t a good idea to draw attention, she turned away and joined her team.
The game against the Canning Factory Cardinals was an easy win. Their centre fielder kept on racing forward while the ball sailed over his head. The right fielder called the ball but kept on falling as he staggered backward, letting the ball drop to the grass. The left fielder fumbled the ball every time he caught it. The others also overshot the base on their throws.
The game ended with a score of 8–1 for the Braves.
“Those guys play just like girls,” Mark commented as they headed toward their bikes. Michiko glared at him, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Why are you so interested in all this, Leahey?” Michiko and Billy heard Coach Ward ask the man in the blue suit. The two of them stood face to face in front of the coach’s car. “You don’t even have a son.”
Michiko and Billy turned to each other. That man is Carolyn’s father?
“It’s the principle of the thing,” Mr. Leahey replied.
“What principle?”
“Girls don’t belong on a baseball field. It’s not ladylike.”
“So,” the coach said, heaving his large belly up over his belt, “let me get this straight. It’s okay for women to hold down jobs in factories, drive ambulances, and put out fires while this war is on, but not all right for girls to play baseball in a small town junior league.”
The man removed his hat and looked around the field.
“Is that what you are saying?” the coach asked, much louder.
The rest of the Bronte Braves gathered around to listen.
“Obviously you don’t pay any attention to regulations,” Mr. Leahey said. “Perhaps you have no business coaching this team.”
One of the boys on the team murmured, “We don’t need a girl on our team.”
“She can pitch better than you,” Billy said, giving him a shove.
The man laughed. “She lied about being a boy,” he said, putting his hat back on. “You don’t want a liar on your team, do you?”
Michiko couldn’t take it any longer. Everyone stood there talking about her as if she didn’t exist, and Mr. Leahey had just called her a liar. She pushed her way through the boys and stood between the coach and Carolyn’s father.
“Mitch is short for Michiko,” she said, putting her hand on her hips, “my Japanese name.” She felt her face getting red. “No one asked me if I was a girl at tryouts, and I NEVER ONCE said I was a boy.”
Both the coach and Mr. Leahey took a step back.
Michiko remembered something her father once said. “Maybe,” she said, turning to Coach Ward, “it’s time everyone stopped paying attention to the length of my hair and started looking at my earned run average? Do you want to win or not?”
Coach Ward looked at her in surprise, and a huge grin broke out across his face. “You’ve got spunk,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”
He scratched his chin for a moment while Mr. Leahey shifted from one foot to the other. Then he turned to Carolyn’s father. “She’s right, with her on the team we have a good chance of winning. You’d think you’d be proud of your home team, instead of making trouble for them.”
“My home team?” the man said. His voice twisted with unmistakeable sarcasm. “This bunch of farmers and fruit pickers is not my team. I attended Applegate College.” He turned on his heel and stormed off.
“Your real name is Michiko?” Billy asked as they walked to their bikes. “Why does the teacher call you Millie?”
“Long story,” Michiko said, shaking her head.
“What do you want me to call you?”
“Whatever you want,” she replied, too weary to talk.
Mr. Nott appeared in the doorway of their classroom the next morning. “All senior students will assemble in the gymnasium,” he said in a serious voice and moved across the hall.
Michiko’s class followed their teacher out of the door, merging with the others to form a noisy, expectant crowd.
“I bet there’s going to be an air raid,” one of the boys called out.
“I bet the Germans invaded Britain,” said another.
Mary reached for Michiko’s fingers and gave them a squeeze. She looked pale.
The principal strode to the podium and held up his hand for silence. They waited in the large room that smelled like dirty socks and rubber balls, facing the stage, wondering what was about to happen. He surveyed the students for a moment and then spoke. “Germany has surrendered,” he said. “The war in Europe is over.”
No one said anything at first, turning to look at the person beside them in disbelief.
“Did he just say what I think he said?” Mary asked.
“Senior students are to be given the rest of the day off,” the principal announced, and with that the gymnasium erupted into a great noise of cheering and yelling. Several teachers came to the front, singing “God Save the King” at the top of their voices.
The students surged out of the auditorium on to the front lawn to the sound of church bells ringing and the continual blast of the basket factory whistle. Like a swarm of bees, they made their way down to the village main street, laughing and cheering. The man who owned the drugstore lit firecrackers. Men appeared on the roof of the hardware store waving flags. There were all kinds of people coming out of buildings and cars, yelling and singing at the top of their voices.
Eddie waved to Michiko as he took his sister’s hand.
“I better go back for Annie,” Billy said to Michiko, when the rest of the students had dispersed into the crowd.
Michiko followed him to the school bus. Their driver sang as he drove past the cars that moved up and down the road, honking. They passed a truck with a huge sheet across the back, painted with the words NAZIS SURRENDER and flapping in the breeze. Their driver took off his hat and tossed it out the window. Everyone on the bus cheered.
Her mother was putting sheets on the line when Michiko arrived home. Michiko watched her pull clothespins from the deep front pocket of her apron and clip them to the edge. She drew another damp sheet from the basket and fixed it to the line.
Mrs. Palumbo walked past them toward the vegetable garden with an empty basket. She smelled of raw onions.
“You’re home early,” Eiko said. She looked at Michiko’s sweaty face and unruly hair and furrowed her brows. “What have you been doing with yourself?” she asked. “You look as if you walked all the way home from school. Was there a problem with the bus?”
Before Michiko could explain being jostled by the jubilant crowd, the sound of church bells punctuated the quiet of the flower farm.
“Why are the church bells ringing?” her mother asked. A look of alarm crossed her face.
“It’s over,” Michiko said with a grin.
“What’s over?”
Before Michiko could answer, Mr. Palumbo rushed past them into the vegetable garden.
“Cosa succede?” his wife asked, raising her head from the tomato plants.
Mr. Palumbo grabbed her by the hand and pulled her out onto the lawn.
She fought his attempts to put his arm about her waist until he whispered something in her ear. Then she threw back her head and shrieked. They broke apart. With her hands on her hips, Mrs. Palumbo kicked her feet back and forth, circling her husband. Then she threw her hands high above her head and clapped to create a rhythm.
Michiko knew her bewildered mother never listened to the news or read the newspapers, to avoid events. She took her by the hand and led her into the house.
Her father was in the kitchen. He had the volume up, and the voice of the news reporter blasted into the kitchen. “Canadians stormed the beaches of Normandy. Two thousand and seventy-six days after the start of the war, it is finally over. Germany has surrendered.”
Her mother sank down into one of the kitchen chairs. “The war is over?” She pressed her fingers to her mouth. “It is really over?”
Sensing her mother’s disbelief, Michiko put her hand on top of her mother’s. “That’s why we’re home from school early,” but she stopped speaking, surprised by her mother’s trembling.
The next day they walked to St. John’s Church under the cool avenue of elm trees along the road. Sam held Hiro’s hand. Michiko and her mother followed with the baby buggy.
The minister stood at the door welcoming everyone as the bells rang out. “There are plenty of seats at the front,” he said through a large grin.
The dim yellow light of the church’s hanging chandeliers and wall sconces seemed unnecessary on such a sunny day. The congregation chatted amid the smell of candle wax and fresh flowers. Michiko was used to Japanese faces filling most of the pews in the small church of the ghost town. Here they had to walk past a sea of hakujin to get to the pews at the front.
The happy chatter of the congregation turned to quiet whispers when the members of the choir entered through a door behind the pulpit and settled in the choir stall. The minister took his place at the wooden podium and invited the choir to sing.
Michiko watched their o-shaped mouths and radiant faces but was irritated by the high-pitched voice of a woman refusing to blend with the others.
The minister rose from his wooden throne to speak.
“Today we come together to give thanks that the war is over, but with sadness at the thousands of men, women, and children who gave their lives to this great conflict,” the minister said. “For them, there will be no jubilance, no celebrations, no three cheers for the King. But this is not a sad thing, for they have heard the clearest, most beautiful sound of all, the clarion call on high. They will have felt the greatest love of all.”
There was not one whisper among the people.
The minister looked out over the crowd. “We will never forget the loss of those we loved, nor should we, but we must also focus our prayers on those who are still so very far away, the ones that have yet to get back home.”
Michiko closed her eyes to do as the minister asked. What about Gerald? Will he be able to get back to playing baseball? What about Francis and his leaky pen? Why is he taking so long to write back? What about Johnny? She guessed her last letter had made him stop writing to her. And then she thought about Kaz and grinned. Her uncle wouldn’t have to go off to fight after all.
“We must show great care and concern for those who arrive back on Canadian shores,” the minister was saying, “not just because they may have been wounded or seen things that do not bear repeating. When we care deeply about someone else; we put a new kind of energy into the world. And we need this new kind of energy in a very great way. Other people will pick it up and make themselves better people. This is called giving Grace, and this is what I mean when I say to you, ‘Go with God’s Grace.’”
The choir stood to sing again. Michiko decided to think nice thoughts about the woman with the out-of-tune voice. She smiled at her, and to her surprise the woman smiled back.
Everyone milled about the front of the church, smiling and shaking hands as the bells rang and rang. Michiko thought it was the happiest day of her life until someone grabbed her elbow and hissed in her ear. “We are still at war with the Japs,” Carolyn said in a low voice.
My war will never be over, Michiko thought as they made their way home.
That night Michiko watched her father eat his dinner. He used his chopsticks with such skill, he always began his meal with the smallest pieces on his plate, unlike her brother, who searched for the largest and crammed it into his mouth.
“Sadie’s got a nice place,” he said to her mother at the end of the meal. “She’s on a street of houses full of Japanese people. Many of them were teachers at the schools in camps.”
“Auntie Sadie has a house?” Michiko asked.
“She rents a room,” Sam said. “She’ll get a house the same way we will, by saving.”
“It’s different now,” Eiko said. “People get mortgages.”
“Japanese people don’t borrow money,” Sam said. “You said that yourself.”
“That was before the war,” Eiko said.
“My animals have a house,” Hiro said. He sat on the kitchen floor with his Noah’s ark animals, making each pair walk up the painted plank to the deck of the wide wooden boat. Another two would arrive in the mail, any day now, just in time for his birthday. Just like her father, Uncle Ted never failed to surprise them with his amazing woodworking talents.
“Your animals live in a boat,” Michiko said. The memory of the girls’ reaction to her uncle’s rowboat at Mary’s party made her face burn red. I wish we could move to Toronto and live on a street full of Japanese people.
STRAWBERRIES
The heat hung about the house like a blanket, but it was the excitement of the next day that had kept Michiko awake. Her first crop of strawberries was ready for harvest.
“The going rate is five cents a pint,” Mr. Downey told her as he handed her a stack of new berry boxes and a jar with a slot in the lid. “You don’t have to sit by the side of the road all day,” he said. “Make a sign. People will take what they need if you aren’t there and leave the money in the jar. Just make sure you collect the money and refill the table on a regular basis.”
Her mother supervised Michiko’s first harvest of the small, bumpy berries, “No one wants their strawberries to be in a condition ready for jam,” she said as she demonstrated how to look under the leaves for the deep crimson berries and gently loosen them from their stems. Then Eiko left the strawberry patch and went back to her work. She lifted a pillowcase from her laundry basket, snapped it, and clipped it to the line. She yanked the rope, making the pulley squeal, and then hung the next one. Michiko picked berry after berry as her mother pegged out the sheets.
Mrs. Palumbo joined Michiko in the garden. “Dat Hitler,” she said as she reached out and snapped off a stalk of asparagus. “Dat’s what I like to do to him.” She stared at the spiked spear and spat on the ground.
Michiko lowered her eyes. Sometimes Mrs. Palumbo displayed a vehemence that frightened her. Her mother once told her Mrs. Palumbo believed that restraint was harmful to her health and would hurl insults at anyone until she felt better. Michiko moved out of the old woman’s spitting range, put her head down, and kept on picking.
That afternoon, after nailing up her sign, Michiko planted her elbows on the tabletop of the wooden stall her father had built. She was thankful for the shade the tiny, shingled roof provided. Like everything her father made, the edges were precise and the surfaces smooth. Settling her face into her hands, she released a long sigh. It took a lot more work than she thought it would to fill six pint boxes.
Mrs. Morrison, the cat, wound her way through Michiko’s legs. Then she extended her front paws along the ground in front of her and offered up her backside for scratching. “Make sure you stay off the road,” Michiko said as the cat arched its back and stuck its tail straight up in the air when she petted it. “We don’t want you to get hit by a car.”
Her first customer was a woman with white hair whose gold-rimmed glasses sat birdlike on her small pointed nose. She took a box of strawberries into her fine-boned bird hands and examined it. “Are they all ripe?” she asked. “No white ones on the bottom?”
Michiko nodded. “I picked each one myself.”
The woman put down the box and unzipped her change purse. But before she could extract any money, a man got out of the car and appeared at her side.
“We’re not buying anything off the Japs,” he said angrily.
“But they don’t own the farm,” the woman protested.
“Then the owner is a sympathizer,” he said, tugging at her elbow.
The woman gave out a deep sigh and pushed the box toward Michiko.
“Those Japs killed my neighbour’s brother,” he said loudly. He looked ba
ck at her as he steered the woman away. “Why don’t you Nips all go back where you came from.”
Michiko’s throat constricted and her chest went tight as the man and woman drove away with tires squealing.
It wasn’t one of us, she wanted to call out as a truck pulled up in front of her.
A scrawny, sunburned young woman in a faded housedress got out from the passenger side. She pushed back wisps of hair escaping from the pile on top of her head held together with grip pins and asked, “Are any of them cheaper because they’re crushed?”
Michiko shook her head. She had lost the desire to talk.
The woman got back in the truck without buying and drove off.
When the next vehicle slowed down, the beige soft top told her it was a convertible. The green car pulled into Billy’s laneway. Michiko stood up in disbelief.
Carolyn got out and waved at her from across the road. The car drove on down the lane to Billy’s house as Carolyn crossed the road.
Michiko picked up the jar of money and stuffed it into the front pocket of her overalls.
“These look good,” Carolyn said, picking a few strawberries from the box in front of her and popping them into her mouth. “Mmmm,” she said licking her lips, “they are really good.”
This time she took a handful of berries from the box.
Michiko moved the box away from her. “They are not free,” she said.
“I’ll get the money from my dad when he comes back,” she said, reaching out for more.
The last thing Michiko needed was Carolyn eating her out of business. She pulled the remaining boxes into her arms. “I’m closing up shop,” she said. “Come back when you have money.”
Carolyn licked her fingers one at a time. “That’s okay,” she said. “I told my dad I would stay with you until he was finished talking to Billy’s dad.”
Michiko ignored her and walked toward the house.
“MILLIE,” Carolyn yelled as she moved into the laneway.
Michiko turned back to see what she wanted.
Cherry Blossom Baseball Page 16