A Thousand Stitches (18 page)

Keiko
and Michiko took the job of sorting the bedding. As they hauled the
futon
from the closet and arranged them in the room where they would sleep with the children, Michiko said, “Keiko, now that I've met Kazue Obasan, I understand where you got your big heart.”

“My Mama is the best,” said Keiko, as she knelt to push a mattress into place against the wall. “And,” she continued, turning her head in Michiko's direction, but not meeting her eye, “don't take Granny too seriously. She's the classic mother-in-law when it comes to how she treats Mama. Granny's lived in Haruyama her whole life. Mama grew up in Yokohama and met Papa in Tokyo when he was a student at the Imperial War College. So Mama will always be an outsider, and with Papa gone.…”

“It's so hard to imagine what it must be like for your mother.”

“Yes,” said Keiko, “your parents were lucky in a way.”

Michiko thought of the day her father died, how she had been sitting with him in the tiny room behind the shop talking about the seventh-day memorial service that was scheduled for her mother the next day. He was smiling and laughing for the first time in that awful week because Michiko had reminded him of the time her brothers had persuaded their mother that they wanted to learn how to bake. “Oh, they were such scamps,” he said. “They just wanted her to make those fancy French cream puff pastries.”

“I helped Mom clean up the kitchen afterwards,” said Michiko. “She knew exactly what they were up to. She laughed about it the whole time we were washing the pans.”

“Oh, how delicious those pastries always were—but maybe that time more than any of the others.” Her father was still laughing when his face contorted. He was gasping for breath as he fell out of the chair. By the time Michiko had run around the table, he was unconscious. And dead before the ambulance crew got him to the hospital.

Keiko,
still kneeling by the mattress, pivoted herself with her hands, turned all the way around and looked Michiko full in the face. Just her glance said it all.

How lucky I am to have a friend who doesn't mouth platitudes. And now I have Kazue Obasan too. Keiko was right. I will be safe here.

“Poor Granny,” Keiko said as she turned away to shake a cover out over the mattress. “Don't worry. She'll come around—after all we represent two more ration cards. It's been years since she's had as much rice as she wants, which certainly hasn't been good for her disposition.”

With the
futon
arranged, Keiko put the few extra clothes the two of them had brought into the chest of drawers. The only things Michiko had left were her photos and letters. She spread the photos out—one of her parents, one of her brothers, and a formal portrait of the whole family. The letters—from her brothers home to the family and from Sam to her—were stacked by her right hand. Keiko moved next to her and they looked at the photos together. She nodded when Michiko said, “Enough, it's time to put them away.”

Michiko stacked the letters on top of the photos and wrapped them in the
furoshiki
, remembering the day her mother had stitched its
sashiko
pattern. Keiko took it from her and slipped it in the bottom drawer, under the clothes.

“You'll know where this is,” she said, before standing and sliding the door open. “Mama, we're ready. Time for the girls to go to bed.”

As
it grew warmer, Keiko and Michiko worked in the garden and were extravagantly proud of each shoot they coaxed from the rough soil. They talked endlessly of how delicious their turnips and pumpkins would be come the harvest. The children were set the task of gathering the twigs and dried leaves the household needed for fuel. Everyone but Granny went foraging for wild greens. Keiko and Michiko often climbed high up the mountains. Most days there was precious little to be found. But there was always talk at dinner time of the berries they would find in the summer, the nuts in the fall.

In
April, the nation was mobilized for a new patriotic effort. All citizens were ordered to gather pine roots so their resin could be distilled into aviation fuel. The job of filling the family quota fell to Keiko and Michiko. On the first day of this new endeavor, they set off very early. They tied their hair in scarves and wore the baggy
mompe
trousers that had been their uniform at the Arsenal.

They climbed higher and higher, digging the roots as they went and filling the baskets they had tied to their backs. Keiko joked that at least they didn't have to worry about their hands—years of making munitions had made them tough. “We look like we've been manual laborers our whole lives. I can't even imagine anymore what it would be like to wear a
kimono
or a nice dress and have my hair done and my hands smooth and really clean. I hate these
mompe,
and I'm sick and tired of having to be patriotic all the time
.
Patriotism now is just like the cloth for these ugly
mompe.
Remember how cloth used to be so nicely made, so pretty to look at when you went to the fabric shop, so nice to the touch?”

Michiko nodded, remembering a Bancho Elementary School class trip to the
iyo kasuri
workshop that produced the traditional Matsuyama splashed-pattern textiles. As she said “Yes” to her friend, she remembered how she had come home and announced to her mother that she wanted to be an
iyo kasuri
weaver when she grew up.

“Michiko, my dear, yes they make beautiful things, but those ladies work long hours and make very little money.”

“But Mom!”

“The ladies who work with the dye never really get the color off their hands or out from under their nails. And the ladies who work on the looms sit at them for at least ten hours a day.”

“I liked the clackety-clack. I liked watching the pattern form.”

“Oh Michiko, many of those ladies lose their hearing after years of the clackety-clack,” said her mother. “But, yes, what comes out of those looms is beautiful, in the best way—subdued and quiet. And I think I know how you—even now—can make something like that, make some beauty of your own. Then you can decide when you're all grown up if you still want to learn how to weave. Once you learn this, you'll have it forever. If you decide you want to be a teacher or a nurse or even a housewife, you'll still have this.”

She walked to the cabinet where the family kept its clothing, knelt, and pulled open the bottom drawer. “This is from an old jacket of your grandfather's,” she said, unfolding wrapping paper and spreading out a piece of indigo blue cloth. “You can see it's the same blue as the
iyo kasuri
. Let's see what we can do with it. I think we may be able to make a runner for the dining room table.”

Starting the next afternoon, her mother began to show her how to make the running stitch
sashiko
embroidery pattern, working a number of stitches at once. The white stitches on the dark indigo ground made the same contrasting color scheme as the
iyo kasuri;
what was missing in the complexity of the weave was made up for by the texture of the stitches atop the cloth.

“Michiko, darling,” her mother said, “see how the stitches make a pattern of stacked boxes? It's lovely. You're doing good work. Your dad will be so surprised when he sees this new piece of your work on the table.”

Her mother was right. She remembered her father's lavish praise when the runner was finished and laid in the middle of the table for the first time. He ran his fingers over the stitches and smiled at her as he said, “Michiko, you did a great job.”

She squirmed with the pleasure of the compliment and ignored her brothers, who were saying, “Dad, enough about Michiko's sewing project. We're hungry. Let's eat!”

Her father looked again at the stitches and then at his wife. “A lovely job. So beautiful,” he said slowly and gently before he picked up his soup bowl and chopsticks, cleared his throat, and said in his loud official Dad voice, “
Now
we eat.” The boys laughed, picked up their bowls, and elbowed each other out of the way reaching for the pickles. Michiko watched her mother and father. They were still looking at each other, ignoring the racket around them. Slowly her mother picked up her soup bowl and chopsticks. Michiko watched her parents decide together that it was again time to pay attention to their children. Her father sipped his soup. Her mother looked away and smiled at the boys; the moment was gone.

“Now,”
Keiko said, “we have ugly patched
mompe
made of cloth mixed with scrap paper and twigs. They're as dirty and ugly and ill-fitting and uncomfortable as all this endless patriotism. “

“And I just hate seeing Mama dressed in these damn
mompe
too. She's re-sewn all her clothes into outfits for the kids. I remember how beautiful she was when I was young. She shimmered when she was dressed up. My sisters will never have that memory. But now with ‘Extravagance the Enemy,' I guess I'm lucky to have my extravagant memories, unless the
kempeitai
decide they're dangerous too.”

They lapsed into silence, concentrating on climbing, listening to their breath and the sounds of the forest.

Ahead
on the steep path, Keiko called out, “Ah, Michiko, you'll love this when you catch up and see the view. It's so romantic. You should be here with Sam, not with me.”

Michiko was happy to hear Keiko mention Sam. Just as she had told only Keiko the details of the deaths of her parents, it was only Keiko she had confided in after Sam's visit to the Arsenal in October. The Matsuyama girls had hounded her for details, but Michiko knew that to them she was an object of curiosity—and perhaps a bit of pity—and most of all, a topic for gossip. Only Keiko knew what hopes she held on to and how futile she was sure they were. Even if both she and Sam survived the war, there would be no place for an “us” in Matsuyama. And for Sam, the only son of his proud mother, it would have to be Matsuyama, and the utmost respectability. No place for the orphaned child of sweet shop owners.

Michiko no longer saw her surroundings as she trudged upward. She was back in Matsuyama again, on
Okaido
, headed to the Prefectural Girls' School at the end of the main shopping street. She was trailing behind a gaggle of her classmates, who were eyeing the Matsuchu schoolboys headed in the opposite direction. The girls moved in a cascade of giggles and whispered comments. Michiko didn't care that she couldn't hear what they were saying—she was busy sneaking glances at Sam. He was marching forward in his new elite Matsuchu uniform, back straight, chin thrust forward, pretending to ignore everyone around him. But she knew he was actually busy looking at her and hoping she was happy to be the object of his attention. She smiled as she had on
Okaido,
happy with her delicious secret, and smiled again when she thought of the pleasure of sharing her secret with Keiko.

As Michiko got closer to the peak, Keiko continued, “But your Sam is probably sitting at some airfield waiting for what the Navy has persuaded him is his chance for glory. But it looks now like even that can't happen until we gather enough pine roots to make the fuel for his plane. How stupid, stupid, stupid everything about this war is!”

And then she was there with her friend and with the lake. Biwa spread out below them, sparkling in the bright spring sunshine. Michiko felt that she and Keiko were one with the pine forest; it embraced them from behind and spread below them down to the water. They even smelled like the forest, with the roots piled in their baskets and the resin staining their hands and clothes. Keiko turned, smiled, and they fell into each other's arms. They hugged and laughed, at the glorious blue lake, at the deep green pines, at themselves, and at their joy. They laughed in the presence of the sheer beauty of their surroundings.

Michiko thought fleetingly of the Inland Sea and the poem after poem about its calm beauty. She remembered climbing to the top of the Matsuyama Castle grounds and looking at the sun sliding down the sky and gilding the glimmering waters. She remembered Sam's arm around her waist and his words in her ear, “We have to start so we'll get you home before dark. Remember me, Michiko, please. Remember this day.” But she had never felt exactly this way, not even then; now she understood, for the first time, what beauty was for. All the sorrow, the pain, and the loneliness of the last years had fled. She was transfixed, transformed, exalted. And grateful. Grateful for Keiko, for the day, the place, the ­moment.

When she was ready to speak, she said, in her best mock formal matter, “Keiko, I'm so glad you brought me with you to your village. I feel at home with you and in this place. And you have arranged such a grand sightseeing excursion for me. My most sincere and humble gratitude is yours.”

They were still laughing as they started back down the mountain. They carried the view of the lake, the smell of the pine, and the warmth of the sunshine with them, even as the shadows fell. They had remembered that they were alive and young. When they reached the clearing atop the hill behind the cluster of village houses, they came upon a young man. He too had a basket, but it hung loose and empty on his back. Still full of high spirits, they laughed and told him the better roots were farther up and that there wasn't much time left before it got dark. His reply was only a quiet, “Thank you,” but his smile was gentle, and his eyes showed his amusement. He stood aside as they continued toward the village. When they were far enough past that he couldn't hear, Michiko said, “Keiko, who's that, and why is someone our age not in the military?”

“I have no idea. I've never seen him before.” When they turned and looked back, he was limping slowly in the opposite direction. He disappeared into the woods.