When the Cherry Blossoms Fell (11 page)

Michiko looked at George in surprise.

“Too bad they got shoes on,” George commented. “If they had their wooden sandals, we could see their six toes.”

Michiko emitted a short involuntary shriek that sounded like hysterical laughter. She couldn't help it. What George had just said was absolutely ridiculous.

George looked at her approvingly. “Yeah,” he said with a smirk. “We'll get a good laugh when those two old Jap men meet up with those bears.” He patted her
on the back, but his touch made her shudder.

Geechan and Tadoshi remained standing. They were engrossed in each other's words. Then they each took a stance. It was as if they were acting out a
karate
match.

Suddenly, Clarence leaped up and jumped on to George's bike. Screaming
“Bonsai!”
he tore off down the road, yelling in what he hoped sounded like Japanese.

The big silver bear looked up. She bounded across the meadow, back into the woods, with her cubs behind. The two men stood and stared.

Clarence returned. “That was great,” he said with satisfaction. “I scared them both.” He leaned the bike against the boulder.

George stood up in anger. “You were supposed to let the bears scare the Japs,” he growled at Clarence. “You don't know how to do anything right.” He yanked his bike from the ground and rode off.

Clarence peered over the rock. “It's okay,” he told Michiko. “The bears are gone.”

She looked up at him, her eyes moist with tears. She picked up a rock and heaved it as hard as she could across the road. She was angry with George. Geechan and Tadoshi could have been hurt. But most of all, she was angry with herself. She had just pretended not to know her very own grandfather.

It glowed so bright, Michiko had to squint to see out her window. She pressed her palm to the pane, and the lace of frost melted. Fine white crystals covered the entire world. Every branch of every tree sparkled. Tiny twigs twinkled like wands, and the pine tops wore tiaras. It was a world of gleaming ice. Michiko looked towards the mountains. The glittering surface stretched on endlessly into the sun.

She dressed quickly and raced to the kitchen. Pulling on her boots, she stepped outside. The ice crackled beneath her feet.

A set of footprints led down the steps. Geechan stood talking with one of the local farmers. Once a week, he sold them dry beans. Sometimes he brought freshly baked bread from his wife's kitchen.

The two men chatted beside the farmer's horse-drawn sled. Icicles hung from the ledge of the tiny windows of the little barnboard house on rails. The wooden boxes stacked about the flat roof were pillowed with snow. The sleek black horse wore several burlap sacks. His harness bells glistened with frost. The large
bundled man gestured broadly with red, swollen hands wrapped in rags. He mimicked shooting a rifle.

Sadie knocked icicles from the edge of the roof with the broom handle. They clattered and smashed at her feet. “This way,” she said, picking up the shards and putting them in a bucket, “we can save ourselves a trip to the creek.”

“You'll turn into an icicle yourself without a coat,” Eiko said at the doorway. Michiko followed Sadie inside.

Sadie placed the bucket on the stove. Michiko munched a piece of toast spread with sardines and watched the icicles lower themselves into their hot, steamy bath.

Geechan entered carrying a wooden box of supplies. “No school,” he told his granddaughter. “Too slippery.”

“I should think not,” Sadie remarked. She smiled and said, “Unless you hitched a ride.”

Geechan told them the farmer had shot a wolf. They were so hungry, they came out of the mountains to hunt farm animals. Sadie and Michiko looked at each other with wide eyes.

Wednesday was baking day. Michiko was glad she didn't have to go to school. She helped dry the dishes. Then she settled at the end of the small table to read.

Geechan sat at the other end peeling apples. Michiko and Clarence had picked every apple that grew on the trees at the side of the house. They had stored them between layers of pine needles in the root cellar.

The rough round apple turned slowly in Geechan's
dark, coarse hands. As the white flesh appeared, a ribbon of peel unwound downward. He laughed and held it up in the air for her to see. Then he jiggled it. For a single minute, it held the shape of the apple before collapsing on the oilcloth. Michiko smiled. Then he sliced the apple into thin wedges and ate them off the tip of his knife.

Her mother hummed as she worked bent over the stove. The oven door clanged open. She put her hand in and began to count aloud. “One, two, three,” she said in a singsong voice. Michiko joined in, “twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five.”

“Hot enough,” her mother said and pulled out her hand. She placed a large sheet of round scones inside. The scones were for Mrs. Morrison.

Winter didn't stop Mrs. Morrison. She had unearthed a sleigh from her barn and put her farm horse in harness. The mare was short, stout and thick in the legs, just like her. Geechan rose to give her an apple for the horse.

Mrs. Morrison brought them all the news that flew about town. People were preparing for the winter. Drifting snow could make the ten miles of winding road to the next town impassable. The supplies on the store shelves were gone.

“Some snow banks are five feet high,” she told them, struggling out of her shabby beaver coat. “The shovelled walks are only wide enough for one.” Her large knuckles tugged at the knot in her woollen kerchief. “They are trying to decide where to put the new school.”

“New school?” asked Michiko. “What's wrong with the old one?”

“Nothing, really,” replied Mrs. Morrison. “There are so many children in town, they need to open another one.”

“How will they decide which children go to which school?”

“Oh, that's easy,” said Sadie. “The government has already made that decision.” She banged the baking sheet. “The new school is for Japanese children only.”

“Just Japanese children?” asked Michiko.

Michiko thought about the rows and rows of tiny houses with pencil-thin curls of smoke coming out of the chimneys. She and Clarence had visited the orchard to watch the older boys play baseball.

Kiko, one of the girls her age, had invited Michiko inside her house. It was a lot different from the way Michiko imagined. Tarpaper and cardboard patched the walls. Bedding was draped from the rafters, and clothes were hung from wooden pegs along the walls. The iron cook stove was half the size of the one they had. Kiko called it their
gangara
stove. There was no pump over a sink, just a galvanized tub and a bucket in the corner. They had to walk to the creek every day, even in the summer, for water. Two families occupied the house, sharing the kitchen.

“Do you mean to tell me the children have not gone to school yet at all?” Eiko asked.

“Believe it or not,” said Mrs. Morrison, “they were holding classes out of doors.” She split open a lightly browned scone. “There's a Japanese woman staying at the hotel.” She smeared it with huckleberry preserves. “She's the supervisor setting up the school.”

“Have you met her?” Michiko's mother asked. “What is she like?”

“All I know is she is looking for teachers,” replied Mrs. Morrison.

Michiko thought about Miss Henderson. She was nice, but she didn't have much discipline. Some of the boys, especially George, often spoke out of turn.

“What about you, Auntie Sadie?” asked Michiko. All three women looked at her in surprise.

“What would I teach?” Sadie asked.

“English, Arithmetic, Art, Physical Education,” Michiko said loudly, counting off her fingers. “Especially Music and Dance.” Then she wagged a finger. “And they would listen to you.”

“Maybe,” Sadie mused as she took a sip of tea. “I could look into it.”

“What are your plans for Christmas?” Mrs. Morrison suddenly asked.

“Christmas?” repeated Eiko.

Michiko looked up from her book. “What about Father?” She turned to her mother. “He has never missed a Christmas.”

Sadie put her scone to one side. “I told you she would be asking soon.”

Michiko threw her arms in the air and cried out. “What about my father?”

Her mother looked at Sadie. “I don't know,” she said through tight lips. “I don't know when your father will be home.” She put her head in her hands.

“You know, Michiko,” Sadie said, “sometimes you
forget you are not the only one who misses him.” She sat down next to her sister and put her arm around her shoulders.

“I'm sorry,” said Michiko. She laid her head on her mother's back.

“You know something,” Sadie said, “we could make some decorations. It would brighten the place up.”

“I remember when I was a child,” Mrs. Morrison mused. “We decorated the mantle with bows of greenery.” She sighed. “We strung popcorn and hung cookies on the tree.”

Michiko's mother gave a small smile. “There is no lack of pine around here,” she said.

Michiko threw her hands up towards the ceiling and twirled around. “We can make paper chains.” She danced over to Hiro. “We can do
origami
.” She clapped her hands in front of her baby brother. “We can wrap presents.” Then she stopped. “That is, if we had any.”

The three women looked at each other and burst out laughing. They laughed so hard, tears streamed down their faces. Sadie and Eiko each used an end of the dishtowel to wipe their eyes. Mrs. Morrison pulled a laced handkerchief from her purse. Hiro grinned and gurgled.

Sadie stood up. “Well, that was good, thanks, Michiko.” She pulled the kettle back onto the hot plate.

“Will you come?” Michiko asked Mrs. Morrison.

Mrs. Morrison put her teacup down. “Where?” She asked.

“Here, for Christmas?” Michiko explained. She looked into her mother's eyes. Her mother smiled.

“Yes,” said Michiko's mother. “Please join us for Christmas.”

Mrs. Morrison dabbed her eyes a second time. “I would love to,” she said. She crumpled the lace into her large, moist hand. “But only under two conditions.”

“Two conditions,” Sadie repeated. “What would they be?”

Mrs. Morrison leaned forward as if to impart a great secret. “You must let me bring a turkey.” Then she sat back suddenly and almost shouted, “My name is Edna.” She put her hands on her hips and boomed, “You must all stop calling me Mrs. Morrison.”

Michiko trudged home, watching the low grey clouds that hung in the sky. The only sound came from the crows. Perched along the bare branches, they squawked at each other with raspy throats. Her world had become nothing but black birds in grey trees.

Michiko used to like the tints of black and grey. She could remember an ink stone shaped like a lily pad used for preparing the ink-stick. The fine sable brush next to the roll of crisp white rice paper had given her the feeling of anticipation. Now, it was as if her whole world was
katakana
, long dark days stroking off the months.

A sudden blast of cold wind snatched her scarf from her neck. She grabbed on to the rim of her knitted hat and ran after it. Luckily, it had snagged on a tangle of branches. If she lost it, it would be a while before she got another.

Michiko's brown woollen coat was too tight. She wore several pairs of socks, but her feet were still cold. In bed, they were like two blocks of ice. Michiko thought she would never get warm all the way through again.

The worst was not having enough to eat. She
remembered a time when she used to leave rice in her bowl. Now, dinner was usually dried fiddleheads, cabbage and bacon. On her way home, Michiko recited the menu she really wanted. It was
miso
soup,
sunomono
salad, rice with red beans,
yakatori
and a large bottle of fizzy orange pop.

Poor Hiro
, Michiko thought.
His first word was
“
more
”.

The icy winds turned the road ruts to glass. The family's well had frozen. They had to haul their water for washing and cooking from the creek. Ted cut a hole in the ice where the current was swift enough to make the ice thin. He tied a rope to the tree and attached a long pole. They had to stir the water to prevent it from freezing over.

Michiko hated stirring with the stick. She hated dragging water up the slippery slope to the drums tied to the wooden sled. It sloshed everywhere. Sometimes the icy water splashed down her legs and inside her boots.

They heard stories of the women in the orchard sweeping the frost from their homes. The children's fingers stuck to the doorways. Snow piled up over their windows.

As she walked alongside the creek, Michiko thought about the frogs. She could picture them sleeping soundly under a lid of ice. Even they were warmer than Michiko and her family.

The branches of the bushes clacked, and the wind continued to blow. It began to rain. Michiko hunched down. Every muscle in her body ached. When she got to the front door, she barely had the strength to open it. She hit the door with her fist.

Geechan yanked it open and drew her in. He took her hands into his own and rubbed them hard. Her mother lit the coal oil lamp. Sadie put a large piece of wood into the stove, and her mother turned up the wick.

No one spoke.

The wind moaned its way through the branches of the apple trees. An icy blast shot under the door and across the room. Eiko rolled the rug which usually lay in front of the sink and stuffed it against the door. Sadie poured them all tea, and they sipped it together, sitting around the lantern.

Hiro slept peacefully in the carriage under the stairs.

The wind blew harder. The slow moan grew to a howl. Michiko thought about Clarence. He was so tall and thin. How would he manage to stand up against the wind?