Paper Wishes (7 page)

The next morning, I see the dog following behind Kimmi's mother.

At school, Kimmi tells me how happy she is that my father gave them the dog.

I want to be happy for Kimmi, but I cannot smile. After a minute, I nod.

 

AUGUST

The wind that blows sand so hard that it hurts my cheeks finally stops. But the sun grows hot and heavy and burns everything in the prison-village: faces, necks, hands, plants.

For several weeks, there will be no classes. Workers will use the time to make new classrooms. The high school classes will continue to be in Block 7, but the elementary and junior high school classes will be spread out in many blocks. When school starts again, we will all still meet in the school yard in front of Block 7 for the pledge.

There are also some other new buildings in the prison-village. It is starting to look like a town. Except for the wire fence.

Workers have just finished building a hospital.

A store opened. Mother can buy fabric and shoes. The store sells everything—besides fabric and shoes, you can buy furniture and dishes and toys and tools.

Ron asks me to meet him at school. Miss Rosalie is leaving for the school vacation, and she would like to say goodbye to me.

I would also like to say goodbye to Miss Rosalie. And I wish to give her a gift. I pull my drawings out from under my mattress and look through them. There are three pictures I like.

The first is a drawing of the school during recess.

The second is a drawing of Miss Rosalie reading a poem to the class.

The third is a drawing of me and Ron and Grandfather in Mother's garden.

Because I cannot choose, I take them all.

When I arrive, I see Miss Rosalie sitting on the steps outside the classroom. Ron stands in the doorway behind her, frowning.

I wonder what has made Ron unhappy.

“Here's Manami,” Ron says.

I hand Miss Rosalie the three drawings. She looks at them all quickly and then looks at the picture of her reading a poem for a long time.

“This is very good,” she says. “But I think you know that.”

Miss Rosalie studies the drawing.

“Do I really do that with my hair?” she asks.

I nod. Yes, I think. You do. You do twirl your hair with your finger when you read poetry to us.

Then she pulls out the drawing of Mother's garden.

“I shall treasure this most of all,” she says. “I will look at it every day and think of Manami. Manami who loves her family. Manami who grows a garden. Manami who draws beautifully.”

I look down because I do not want Miss Rosalie to see my sorrow. I will miss her.

Miss Rosalie leans down until she can see my eyes.

“I'm just visiting my aunt and uncle for a few weeks,” she says. “I will come back.”

Miss Rosalie says it like a promise.

I nod.

“I have a gift for you, too,” Miss Rosalie says.

She goes inside her classroom and returns with a thick stack of paper and four pencils.

I lift my eyes to Miss Rosalie's face and am surprised to see tears on her cheeks. For the second time, Miss Rosalie wraps her arms around my shoulders.

“I will miss you,” she whispers. “But I will come back.”

Ron tells me to walk home without him.

On my way, I see Kimmi's dog lying in the shade in front of their barracks.

As I walk past the mess hall, I see another dog following a man. This dog is white. But it is large. When I see this new dog, my heart starts to beat faster. Why did this dog also come and not Yujiin? I run the rest of the way home.

When I burst through the door, Grandfather jumps from his chair and I drop my paper and pencils.

“What is wrong?” he asks.

My breath comes quickly after that run. I cover my eyes with my hands.

Grandfather lifts me and sets me in his chair. “Breathe,” he says.

When my breath is calm again, Grandfather says, “Tell me what has happened.”

I open my mouth, but words do not come out. My eyes burn with tears, and I close them.

Grandfather places a pencil in my hand and sets a piece of paper on my lap.

“I must know what has upset you, little one,” Grandfather says. “Is it because your teacher is leaving?”

I shake my head no.

I think about the Yujiin drawings. I think about the promises I made. I wonder if these two dogs found my Yujiin drawings by mistake. And came to the prison-village because of them.

I open my eyes, but Grandfather is blurry. The room is blurry. When I write, even my letters are blurry:
Dogs.

“I understand,” Grandfather says. “They make you miss Yujiin more.”

He takes the paper and pencil from me and then sends me to my bed.

“No drawing,” he says. “Sleep.”

When I wake, it is nearly dark. I have slept for hours and missed dinner. Grandfather and Mother and Father and Ron gather around the small table, speaking in low voices. I sit up on my bed.

Mother joins me, unbraiding my hair and brushing it out. The rhythm of the brushing almost makes me fall asleep again. She brings a wet cloth to clean my face and hands. It feels cool against my skin. I hold it to my forehead while she braids my hair.

“I'm sorry the dogs upset you today,” she says. “Come.”

I sit between Ron and Grandfather.

Ron tells Mother that I went to the school to say goodbye to Miss Rosalie.

“Miss Rosalie is fond of Manami,” he says.

“Manami is a good student,” Mother says. “I am not surprised.”

“Yes,” says Father. “Manami is a good girl. We are proud of her.”

“Manami brought paper and pencils home,” says Grandfather.

“They were a gift from Miss Rosalie,” Ron says.

I feel my cheeks heat up. This praise makes me feel happy and uncomfortable at the same time.

Mother uncovers a bowl of rice and places it before me. She slices a cucumber and arranges it on a plate in the shape of ocean waves. She pours water from a teapot into a cup.

The water is not hot. It is also not cold. But the cup feels good in my hands. Solid. The cucumber is cool and sweet. The rice is filling.

While I eat, Ron and Father talk. Ron wants Father to find a place for him on his building crew until school starts again. Father does not want Ron to work on the building crew. Father wants Ron to spend his time studying so that he will not fall behind when he returns to college. When their talk is almost an argument, Mother interrupts.

“My garden is strong and healthy,” she says.

“You brought good seeds,” Father says.

“This desert sun is hard on the plants,” Mother says. “They would have died if not for Manami and Ron's help.”

Father again tells Ron to use this month to study. Before Ron can answer, Grandfather speaks.

“No arguments tonight,” he says.

Mother fills the silence that follows with a song.

*   *   *

With no school, the wild boys run loose. They do not study. They do not garden. They do not work. They huddle in shadows. They scowl. They smoke cigarettes.

Grandfather says, “Their fathers are working and cannot take them out on boats.”

Grandfather says, “Their mothers are working and cannot watch over them.”

Grandfather says, “They are running wild.”

I think, My father is working.

I think, My mother is working.

I think, I do not run wild.

Ron buys a baseball bat, a baseball, and a glove with his salary. He makes a baseball diamond. He gets wood squares from Father for each base.

It stays light past 8:00 p.m. So after dinner, Ron picks up his bat and ball and glove.

“Baseball?” Ron asks me.

I look at the ground because I do not want to disappoint Ron. But I do not want to play ball with the wild boys.

“Maybe next time,” he says.

He tosses his ball in the air with one hand and catches it with the other while he walks to the baseball diamond.

From the spot in Mother's garden where I squat to check for tomato bugs, I see one wild boy after another slink from the shadows to follow Ron.

“That is good,” Grandfather says.

I disagree. I do not like to see those wild boys with Ron.

*   *   *

On the island, August is not hot the way it is in this prison-village. Here, there is a time during the day that is so hot that I cannot move. So hot that sweat films over my entire body. So dry that my lungs hurt to breathe. So bright that my eyes burn.

It is during this time of the day that Mother tells me to lie on my bed. If I am still, the heat is not as bad. And sometimes I can fall asleep. If I cannot be still, then I draw. And I forget about being hot.

It is during this time of the day that Grandfather tells me stories of his childhood. He wasn't born on the same island I was, but on a different one: Japan. He tells me stories about my grandmother. He tells me the story of a great wave taller than a building that destroyed an entire village when he was a boy.

*   *   *

It is also during this hottest month of the year that we light lanterns to honor and remember our ancestors. The celebration brings our whole family together. At home we always sent our lanterns down a creek. They floated in a sparkly line: the first one was Mother's to honor Grandmother, then Grandfather's to honor his parents, then Father's to honor his parents, and then Ron's, Keiko's, and mine. Ours honored our long-ago ancestors.

We ate sweets. We danced. We drummed.

I wore a beautiful kimono and carried a painted fan.

This year, I wonder: Where will we send our lanterns? There are no creeks to carry them away.

*   *   *

As it gets closer to the time to light lanterns, Mother and Father stay out late to help prepare for the celebration.

But one night, Father wakes me up and hands me a narrow package wrapped in bright, silky fabric. I think it must be pencils. I untie the knot and fold the fabric back. Father has made a fan for me.

I trace my fingers along the smooth spokes of the fan. A red cord hangs from the base of the spokes. When I open it, the paper changes from white to green to blue. Father has painted a boat and our island. The white wall of our house. My favorite rock.

It makes me happy and sad at the same time.

I kiss Father's cheek.

He pats my arm.

“Go to sleep now,” Mother says.

I wrap Father's fan in the bright fabric and put it under my bed.

In the morning, I show Grandfather my fan. He inspects it as if he has never seen it before.

“You know,” he says, “your father spent many hours making this for you.”

I know.

“You see,” he says, “your father thinks of the island just like you.”

I see.

“You understand,” he says, “your father loves you very much.”

I understand.

“We will make lanterns,” Grandfather says. “Lanterns and a drum.”

*   *   *

Grandfather and I take a long walk to Father's work crew. There have been no newcomers for a week. This is good because there is no place to put newcomers anymore. Every barracks is filled. Since they have finished building barracks, Father and his crew have been working on building a barn and fences for cows, pens for hogs, and coops for chickens that the government is sending to us. Some of the animals have already arrived.

I see men working in the pasture. And two new dogs who are not Yujiin.

Grandfather sees them and squeezes my hand.

When we get near Father's work site, he leaves his crew to meet us.

Father and Grandfather speak in low voices while I watch the crew build the barn's roof. The cow barn has only three walls. The chicken coops have four walls. I think I like the three-wall barn better. The cows can come and go whenever they want. The chickens are stuck inside their coops until someone lets them out for the day.

Grandfather hands me a bundle of wood pieces to take back to our room. He carries his own bundle, along with two tools.

When we get home, Grandfather stacks the wood and lays the tools on the ground near the steps in front of our barracks.

“Wedge,” he says.

It is wide and flat on one end and narrows to a sharp line on the other.

“Knife,” he says.

It is as long as my forearm, with handles sticking straight up on both ends.

Grandfather sets a piece of wood on the ground and places the wedge on top. He taps the wedge with a hammer until the piece of wood splits into two pieces. When he has split all of the wood, Grandfather sits on a stair step. He holds a split piece of wood between his feet. With his hands around the handles of the knife, he slowly pulls the knife toward him, shaving off a strip of wood. He does this over and over until he has a stack of strips on the step next to him.

Grandfather cuts the strips into pieces about the same size as my pencils.

Grandfather dips his finger into a small pot and smears sticky glue onto some of the wood strips, joining them to make the frame of a box. Then he glues two more strips on the bottom of the box to make an
X
. He sets the frame aside and makes another.

“Bring paper,” Grandfather says.

From underneath my mattress, I get half of the stack of paper that Miss Rosalie gave me.

“Go ahead and paint,” Grandfather says. “With your paintings, the lanterns for our family will be the most beautiful lanterns.”

I pick up the chicken-feather paintbrush Grandfather has laid over the top of a bowl of black paint.

I want the first painting for the first lantern to be for Grandmother. I dip the paintbrush into the paint and carefully paint the roots of a tree. I am not used to painting with chicken-feather paintbrushes. But after a few strokes, my painting becomes easier.

Grandfather watches me. As soon as I paint the first upward stroke of the tree's branches, he nods and goes back to his gluing.