Cherry Blossom Baseball (5 page)

DEAR CLARENCE

M
ichiko
lay quietly for a moment in the warmth of her new bed, listening to the morning sounds of a closing bedroom door, the flush of the toilet, and the gentle murmur of her parents talking. She rose, dressed, and went to her window, surprised at the absence of mountains. The view that stretched before her seemed to be nothing but sky and field.

A man in a black wool sweater, black corduroy trousers, and gardening boots was raking leaves. Curly black hair peeked out from the back of a cap pulled down over his ears. His hands were as thick and wrinkled as an old tree stump. The man stopped raking and looked up into one of the trees, revealing a large black moustache that made Michiko giggle. The skin crinkled around his eyes, and all his fierceness disappeared. Whatever the man saw in the tree made him smile.

Michiko craned her neck to see what was so amusing, but she couldn't. Her attention went to a slight woman in a faded housedress and headscarf walking toward the man. She carried a basket filled to the brim with tomatoes. The morning sun caught the heavy gold cross that hung from her neck.

Michiko's mother had told her another family lived and worked on the farm. Mr. Palumbo did the same job as her father, while his wife took care of the garden.

Michiko glanced in the direction of the vegetable patch. Near the wooden gate was a standpipe with a coil of hose. Beside that was a large green watering can. Most people thought gardening was an easy job, but Michiko knew how hard Geechan had worked on his tepees of beans, lines of carrots and onions, and rows of tomato plants. He had to hoe, water, pull weeds, and tie up stragglers. He even rose before the sun just to pick off slugs with his chopsticks.

Michiko turned from the window to the small table that served as her desk. Next to her jar of paper flowers was a stationery set from Sadie and Kaz, Clarence's blue box, and the sketch pad and package of coloured pencils Mrs. Morrison had given her.

She had three thank-you notes to compose. Michiko knew her mother's expectations, and it wasn't polite to delay in writing one's appreciation. She pulled out the chair just as Hiro raced into her room and threw himself on her bed, face down.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“Mrs. Morrison's gone,” came the muffled reply.

“What did you say?” Michiko asked.

“Mrs. Morrison's gone,” he repeated.

“I know,” she said. “Don't you remember waving goodbye?”

“My cat,” Hiro wailed. “She's gone.”

Michiko had to grin. Last night her father had told Hiro that the cat should have a name. “Did you forget to close your bedroom door?”

“No,” Hiro said unconvincingly.

“She has to be somewhere in the house,” Michiko assured him.

Hiro rolled over and sat up. “She ran home to her mother.”

“That's too far away,” Michiko said as she shooed him out the door. “Go have your breakfast while I write my letter. Then I will help you search.” Just as she turned back to her desk, Michiko noticed Mr. Palumbo walk by with a ladder.

Dear Clarence,

Y
ou were right about the long train ride, but we had an extra passenger to entertain us. Mrs. Morrison packed one of her kittens in our food basket!!!!

To make the point of how surprised they all were, she added several more fat exclamation marks at the end of the sentence.

O
ur new house is small, but at least I have my own room.

Michiko thought about crossing that out to stop Clarence from thinking she was bragging; he shared his house with six other siblings. But she decided to leave the sentence in. She wished she had some great adventure to write about rather than the dullness of her life.

T
here is another house behind us with an Italian man and woman. Their son used to work on the farm, but he left for another job in Toronto. That's why my dad had to come early.

T
hank you for the box. I'm going to keep letters in it, so you have to write back.

After signing it, Michiko folded the paper in half and stuffed it in the envelope. On the front she printed his name and address. On the back she printed her new one.

“One down and two to go
,
” Michiko said as the smell of toast beckoned her into the kitchen.

Hiro sat at the table with his head in his hands, his toast untouched.

“I said I'd help you find her,” Michiko said. “Eat up.”

“Dad's gone,” Hiro said.

Michiko looked at her father's empty chair and then up at her mother. “Dad's gone?” It was Saturday, and she had expected he would be spending the whole day with them.

“He'll be back,” Eiko said. “He left at dawn to take a shipment of flowers to Toronto.”

Michiko lifted her piece of toast to her mouth and thought about Toronto. She wondered if she would ever get a chance to go back there. Maybe she would be able to find Kiko, one of her classmates who had moved there last year. Michiko was just about to take a bite when there was a rap at the kitchen door. Her mother moved to open it, but before she reached the handle, it flew back and banged against the wall.

The thin old woman she'd seen through the window stood in the doorway.

“
Buon giorno,
” she said as she stepped inside. Since she was no longer wearing her headscarf, Michiko could see her iron-grey hair, braided and pinned into a thick coil at the back of her neck.

“Mrs. Palumbo?” Eiko asked. She wiped her hands on her apron and extended one.

“
Si,
” said the woman, but she did not take the offered hand. She stared at the two children the way an eagle sees its prey and then gave a smile that revealed two rows of brown teeth. With a spotted, gnarled finger, she beckoned to them.

“You want the children to come outside?” Eiko asked.

“
Si,
” said the woman, putting out her hand.

Hiro fled from the table to hang on to his mother's skirt.

Michiko looked to her mother for direction. She didn't want to be rude, but she couldn't get rid of the feeling that she had just become Gretel while Hansel hid behind his mother's skirt. “Go on,” Eiko said firmly. “See what she wants.”

Michiko slid from her chair and put her hand out for Hiro to take.

He moved back farther against the wall.

Michiko shrugged and followed the woman outside and around the back of the house. Her feet sank into the soft grass, damp with early morning dew. Mr. Palumbo was coming down the ladder, cradling a tiny black cat with a white tail.

“Mrs. Morrison!” Michiko cried out as she reached to take the cat. “You found her!”

The woman knitted her brows in puzzlement. “Palumbo,” she said, patting her chest, “
Signora
Palumbo.”

Michiko nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Palumbo,” she said. “The kitten belongs to my brother. He was sad when he couldn't find her.”

Mr. Palumbo nodded. Then he reached out, scratched the kitten's tiny head, and broke into a smile. Michiko took a closer look at his well-trimmed, heavy moustache and giggled. “Thank you,” she said again.

The man doffed his cap and turned to remove the ladder as Michiko dashed back into the house. She placed the kitten into Hiro's arms.

“Mr. Palumbo found her up the tree,” she explained. “He got a ladder to get her down.”

Hiro drew the kitten to his face and nuzzled its fur.

“He should go outside and say thank you,” Michiko said to her mother.

Hiro put the kitten on the floor next to its saucer of milk.

“Maybe he should write a thank-you letter,” Michiko muttered as she returned to her toast.
At least this morning's adventure will give me something to write to Mrs. Morrison,
she thought.
Wait until she finds out Hiro named the kitten after her.

The kitchen door swung open for a second time. It was her father.

“Where did you get that?” Eiko asked Sam, staring at the huge burlap bag in her husband's arms.

Sam put the rice sack on the counter. “A Japanese fellow gave me directions to his grocery store in Toronto,” he said with a wide grin. “He says he'll stop by soon on his way to Niagara Falls.”

“How much was it?”

“I got it on credit,” he said sheepishly.

“On credit,” her mother said, glaring at the bag as if it was garbage. “We never buy things on credit. What were you thinking?”

Sam's eyes went as hard as coal. “I was thinking of rice,” he said, letting the screen door slam as he headed back outside.

Eiko looked at the door and shook her head.

“Rice!” Michiko exclaimed as she raced to the counter to examine the bag. She couldn't wait for its buttery, nutty smell to bubble up from the pot on the stove.

SCHOOL

M
r
. Downey drove an anxious Michiko and her mother into the village Monday morning. School had already started, and she had missed the first few weeks.

White trellises of late summer roses stood between the windows of the two-storey brick building. The well-manicured lawns boasted beds of geraniums and marigolds.

“It's so beautiful,” Michiko murmured as they pulled up the drive. Her last school, a derelict hardware store in an abandoned part of the ghost town, had a dank, woody odour, and nothing was in bloom anywhere near.

“The Bronte Horticultural Society holds their meetings here,” Mr. Downey said. “They oversee the landscaping in exchange. Turned out quite pretty, don't you think?”

Several children moved toward the entrance to stare at Michiko and her mother as they made their way up the walkway. Eiko ignored them as she marched into the building. Michiko, in her crisp white blouse, new skirt, shiny hair, and scrubbed face, waited on a chair in the school office with her lunch sack in her lap. She stared up at the glass cabinet filled with trophies, silver cups, and statues of men swinging bats. When the school bell rang, the building echoed with children's voices coming from every direction.

“I wish to enrol my daughter,” Eiko said.

A man turned to look at her through glasses that caught the light and shone like mirrors. He removed the wire-framed spectacles, pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and began to polish them. “I'm the principal, Mr. Nott,” he said. “What was the last school she attended?”

“It was a private school,” her mother responded with her head held high. “She began her education in Vancouver before we moved to a small town. The following year she transferred from the village school to a private institution.” No mention was made of the fact that their non-government school was only for Japanese students. Michiko's mother handed the principal a sheaf of papers.

“Her marks are quite good,” the principal commented as he riffled through the documents. “I assume you also have a birth certificate?”

Her mother opened the clasp of her black leather bag, removed it, and handed it to him.

Mr. Nott studied the certificate with a frown. “Your daughter appears to have two different names,” he said. He looked over to Michiko. “Why is that, young lady?”

Michiko stood and shot to attention. “I used my Japanese name in Japanese school, and my English name in English school,” she said with a nervous glance in her mother's direction.

The principal sorted through the reports, selected one, and handed the certificate back to Eiko. “Well,” he said, “this is an English school, and therefore we will use your English name.” He opened his desk drawer, removed a piece of paper, and pushed it toward Eiko. “Fill this out, please, while I take your daughter to class.”

She nodded and picked up a pen.

“This way,” Mr. Nott said to Michiko as he strode into the foyer.

Michiko waved to her mother and followed the principal to the last classroom in the corridor. He pushed open the door without knocking and swept his eyes across the rows of desks facing the chalkboard.

The teacher rose from her desk. The students jumped from their seats and chanted, “Good morning, Mr. Nott.”

“Miss Barnhart, you have a new student,” Mr. Nott boomed across everyone's heads. “Do you need a desk for …?” he hesitated, looked at the paper in his hand, and said, “Millie.”

Michiko didn't have to look around to know she was the only one in the classroom with a Japanese face; the raised eyebrows and whispers behind hands told her. For a brief moment, she considered turning on her heel and running away. Instead, she raised her eyes to the samples of cursive writing on large green cards that marched across the top of the blackboard. Then she watched the thin red hand of the large clock next to the Canadian flag jerk past the minute lines.

The teacher shook her head. “No, thank you, Mr. Nott, we have an extra desk,” she said. A necklace of seed pearls peeked between the turquoise buttons of her sweater set, and dark-framed glasses hung from a silver chain. Her blond hair formed a twist above the nape of her neck.

Miss Barnhart gestured that Michiko was to come to the front of the room. “You may sit here until I determine your reading group,” she said, indicating Michiko was to take the stool beside her desk.

Michiko sat with the heels of her shoes resting on the bottom rung, proud she had not one spot of white polish on the brown sides of her saddle shoes. She arranged her new three-tiered flounced skirt with care and looked up to see some of the students whispering behind their hands.

“As always on Monday morning, we begin with current events,” Miss Barnhart announced as she tapped the blackboard with her pointer. “Are there any new wartime regulations?”

Several hands shot up.

“Betty?”

“Don't serve bacon and eggs together,” a girl in a plaid cotton dress said.

“And why is that?”

Betty lifted her head with pride and said, “It's one too many proteins on a plate. Our farmers have to feed the troops as well.”

Miss Barnhart took a piece of chalk from the ledge and handed it to Betty. “You may record that,” she said, turning back to the class and pointing to a blond boy with a brush cut in the third row.

Betty wrote out the new wartime regulation in large, loopy letters.

“Hitch a ride to save gasoline,” Richard said.

The teacher nodded, and Betty handed Richard the chalk.

“One more,” the teacher said. “Kenneth?”

“In winter, we should keep furnaces low and wear long underwear.”

Everyone, including Michiko, laughed. While Kenneth was at the chalkboard, some students continued to snicker behind covered mouths.

“And to finish up,” Miss Barnhart said, “what is our motto?”

Together the class chanted. “Use it up, wear it out, make do, or do without.”

Michiko had to smile. Her family had lived by that motto even before the war began.

The teacher moved into the centre of the rows of desks. “Please stand if you have brought something to contribute to the war effort.”

Several students shuffled to their feet.

“Donald,” Miss Barnhart called out.

A boy in a striped T-shirt and blue jeans held up a bundle of newspapers tied with twine.

Miss Barnhart nodded, and he took them out the door.

Dorothy, from the middle of the classroom, held up a flattened tin can. The teacher nodded, and she placed it in a cardboard carton at the back of the room.

Miss Barnhart turned to a girl with long, dark hair, holding a lace handkerchief. “Carolyn,” she asked, “what have you brought?”

Carolyn gave her hair a toss before she spoke. “I read that the army can make thirty bullets from just one of these.” She held up an object wrapped in the white lace handkerchief.

The boys repeated the phrase “thirty bullets” in awe. Those at the back stood up to see better.

“Of course, I had to remind my mother every single day not to throw it out.”

The suspense in the room built as the children craned their necks to see.

“Show it to us,” the teacher said.

Carolyn cupped her free hand over the small white bundle and lifted her chin. “I thought I would make everyone guess.”

The teacher's eyes flashed. “We don't have time for a game,” she said, putting out her hand to receive the object. “Show us now, or we'll have to look at it during recess.”

Carolyn's bottom lip protruded as she unwrapped the handkerchief and held up the small metal object. All eyes strained to see.

“One of my mother's lipstick tubes is made out of solid brass,” Carolyn announced with excitement. “Just think, it will make thirty cartridges.”

“Wow,” said one of the boys at the back.

There was a brief spatter of applause and a few whistles. Carolyn faced the class with a large smile, gave a curtsey, and turned to the teacher. “I believe that qualifies me as being this week's top contributor,” she said.

“We will still vote,” the teacher said as she turned to the class. “Please raise your hand in favour of Donald's effort.”

Most of the boys raised their hands.

“Please raise your hand for Dorothy's tin can.”

Dorothy's hand shot up, and after glaring at the girl beside her, her hand shot up as well.

“And for Carolyn's brass lipstick tube?”

The rest of the class put up their hands.

“It seems we have a tie,” the teacher said. She turned to Michiko. “Would you like to vote?”

Michiko nodded and stood up. “I think the boy with the newspapers did the most work,” she said. “He had to go out and collect them. The girls just waited for something to be empty.”

The girls in the classroom gave a collective gasp, while the boys cheered.

“Very good,” the teacher said with a fox-like smile. “You considered working over waiting.” Miss Barnhart turned to the class. “Millie understands the true meaning of the words ‘war effort.'”

Michiko smiled, but the smile dropped from her face when she saw the dark look that Carolyn directed toward her.

“Please open your readers to the assigned page,” Miss Barnhart told the class as she sat at her desk. “Can you read?” she asked kindly as she lifted her glasses to her nose.

Michiko nodded.

The teacher selected a passage from the first of three books sitting on top of her desk. She pushed it toward Michiko. “Begin anywhere,” she said.

Michiko read passages in all three of the cloth-covered books with ease.

“You may sit beside Mary,” Miss Barnhart said, handing her the reader with the blue cloth cover. She turned to the girl who had brought the lipstick tube. “Carolyn, please gather your things and move to the row behind.”

“But Miss Barnhart,” Carolyn said, narrowing her eyes, “you know Mary won't be able to concentrate without me.”

“Carolyn Leahey,” the teacher said, crossing her arms, “I thank you for moving.”

Carolyn looked around at the other children and smirked. “Well, don't blame me if she doesn't do well,” she said as she flung herself into the desk behind.

Michiko held her breath as she took her seat.
She talks like that to the teacher?

Mary, the girl she was to sit beside, had soft curls that floated like a cloud of brown sugar around the yellow ribbon she wore as a headband. Just below her sky-blue eyes, a small dusting of freckles danced across her tiny nose. She wore a full-skirted dress of yellow with a white sweater draped over her shoulders. A chain of daisy clips held it in place.

Michiko was thankful she had brushed her hair a hundred times that morning.

“The Robins Reading Group,” Miss Barnhart informed her, “are on page fourteen. Your questions are on the first chalkboard in front of you. Did you bring any school supplies, Millie?”

Michiko shook her head. Nothing would be purchased until her mother knew exactly what was needed, but she was too embarrassed to say. “I wasn't sure.…” she mumbled.

“You can stay in at recess, and I will help you make a list,” Miss Barnhart said, returning with a sharpened pencil, a small pink eraser, and a few sheets of foolscap.

Michiko read the assigned story and concentrated on answering the questions. She finished in time for the teacher to announce recess.

“Is she Chinese?” she heard someone ask as they headed out the door.

“I've never had a Chink in my class before,” said another.

Michiko turned to the beginning of the reader to catch up on what she had missed.
Let them think I'm Chinese. It might be better for everyone.

“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.