Flying the Dragon (23 page)

“Tsuki-san, I had never heard you speak Japanese without being afraid. Until now. Today you had no fear. For your oral exam, I give you a perfect score.”

Skye blinked.
A perfect score?

Takahashi Sensei laughed. “I am surprised I was able to concentrate on grading your written exams. I assure you it was difficult once you began talking about
rokkaku
—kite fighting brings back fond childhood memories.” He folded Skye’s stapled exams and handed the packet to her like it was a secret document. “Of course there were a few grammatical errors.”

Skye stared at the folded papers. She didn’t have perfect scores. And Kumamoto Sensei had said she’d need an almost perfect final score to pass into Takahashi Sensei’s advanced class next semester.
Was it close enough?

He nodded. “You did have some minor errors in each subject, but they did not detract from your overall grade—it is nothing we cannot fix in my class next semester.” He smiled. Skye opened her exams to see her final score on the cover page. At the top was a red three, the highest score possible. She bowed deeply and thanked her teachers—present and future—then turned to go.

“Tsuki-san,” Kumamoto Sensei called out, “your jacket.” She pointed to the chair.

Skye took her jacket, bowed again and left the quiet room. She walked out the double doors and sat on the bench in front of the flagpoles to wait for her dad. Usually she called him right after class to say she was ready. He’d be sitting in the coffee shop down the road now reading the newspaper, like he always did while waiting for her call.

Skye unzipped her front jacket pocket, reached in, and pulled out her cell phone. But something else brushed her fingers—silk and wood. Reaching in with her other hand, she pulled out a twig with three perfect cherry blossoms. Not taking her eyes off of the sprig, she set the phone on the bench beside her. These must have been the blossoms that Grandfather had given her a week ago. But that was impossible—the fragile flowers should have withered and died after a week in her jacket pocket.

But there they were, as fresh and delicate and pink as if they had just been picked. Skye twirled the twig in her fingers, and her eyes filled with tears until all she could see was a blurred cloud of pink against dark cherry wood.

Over the next few days, Hiroshi felt as if he were moving underwater. Relatives traveled from Japan, some of whom he’d never met before. They all spoke in low voices, bowing deeply to Father. Aunt Cathy had invited Hiroshi to join her and Skye on a walk, but he told her he had to help Mother. That wasn’t really true, but he wanted to be alone—not easy when he was constantly surrounded by people.

“Why don’t you go ride your bike, Hiroshi?” Mother had said when she found him sitting on the stairs. “It’s a beautiful day outside. Go get some fresh air.”

Hiroshi didn’t feel like riding his bike. Or going outside. Or staying inside. He walked past Father and heard him talking with Third Uncle in the hallway about the white kimono.

Hiroshi wandered outside and sank onto the front step. The white kimono. This would be the one they placed in the casket along with sandals, leggings, and a headband with a triangle in the center. Paper money would also be laid in the casket—Grandfather might need the money to get to the next world. His favorite things from this life could also be added to the casket for his next life. Everything would be cremated together before Grandfather began his journey.

Favorite things.

Hiroshi stood up. He knew what he had to do. There wasn’t much time, with the wake scheduled for tomorrow.

Hiroshi hurried back inside the house and weaved his way through the crowd of relatives and down the basement steps. Overhead, muffled voices mingled with creaking floorboards as people padded from room to room in their slippers. Hiroshi breathed in the peace of Grandfather’s workshop.

He walked straight over to the box of bamboo and chose a few of the smallest pieces from the stack. Still too big. One by one, he trimmed them down to size; some the length of his hand, others no longer than his little finger. With a thick-bladed knife, he sliced the bamboo along its grain until each piece was thin enough. The light outside began to fade, but he kept working.

He didn’t hear Mother come down the stairs, and jumped when she set a plate of rice cakes on the worktable beside him. “You must be hungry, Hiroshi. You’ve been down here for almost two hours. Are you all right?”

“
Hai.
I’m just making something for Grandfather. You know, for the wake tomorrow.”

“Don’t stay up too late. Tomorrow will be a long day for all of us.”

Hiroshi listened to her footsteps as she climbed back up the stairs. Rubbing his stiff neck, he stood to stretch. The creaking floorboards and low voices had faded. He popped a rice cake into his mouth and sat back down to work. He measured and cut the
washi
paper to fit the dimensions of the bamboo sticks, then opened the bottle of glue.

An hour later Father came downstairs. “Son, it’s time for bed.”

“Look, Father. I think it’s finally finished.” Hiroshi held a miniature, six-sided
rokkaku
kite, complete with string.

“Hiro-chan, did you make that yourself?”

“The glue still has to dry, but it’ll be ready by tomorrow.”

Father leaned in to inspect the kite. “It’s exquisite, Son.”

“I didn’t have time to paint it, but the kimono and other things will be white, so I thought this could be white, too.”

“He would be so proud of you.” Father sat on the stool next to Hiroshi. “He was already so proud of you.”

“Do you ever wish you had become a kite maker, like Grandfather?”

Father smiled a faraway smile. “When I was a boy, I used to think I would. I loved flying kites just as much as you do. But I was nowhere near as good as you are. Grandfather knew it, too, although he was always patient with me. My younger brother was even worse than I was, if you can believe that. First Uncle had Grandfather’s talent, but once he fell in love with Aunt Cathy, he left kites and Japan behind him.”

“Was Grandfather sad that no one wanted to help him in his workshop?”

“He may have been, but he never showed it. When I finally admitted to him that I had no future in kites, he reminded me that one does not need to be a champion to fly a kite for pleasure. He encouraged us to become whatever we wanted but to always leave room for fun.”

Hiroshi held the tiny kite up to the light. “He’s got to have a kite in his next life, you know. And maybe this will help him to remember me.” He gently set the kite on the table.

Father rested his hand on Hiroshi’s shoulder. “Hiro-chan, Grandfather won’t need a kite to remember you.”

Hiroshi hoped Father was right. When they got to the top of the stairs, Hiroshi took one more look at the tiny kite alone on the worktable. “You can go ahead, Father. I’ll be right there.”

Hiroshi went back down the steps, picked up the cloud white kite and carried it back upstairs. When he got to his room, he set it next to the photo of himself with Grandfather. When Hiroshi finally fell asleep, the white kite drifted in and out of his dreams.

If Skye had to smile and bow at another relative she didn’t know, she decided she would bow herself right out the door and walk home. Everyone had gathered at Hiroshi’s house for the wake, but all they did was pay attention to her. What was her favorite subject in school? How did she like living in America? Had she been playing soccer long?

Skye had her own question: Why couldn’t everyone just leave her alone? Whenever she overheard snippets of stories about Grandfather, she’d edge closer, hoping for a Grandfather story that she could tuck into her heart. But as soon as they saw her, they’d smile and she’d bow and they’d ask her another school question.

Skye needed some air. But when she opened the door, she found a man no taller than she was standing on the front step in a dark grey robe, his hand poised to knock.

Aunt Naoko rushed past her. “
Dozo.
“

Skye opened the door wider, and Aunt Naoko invited the man in, announcing that the priest had arrived. He stepped into the foyer, setting off a flurry of bowing from the others. Skye sighed and closed the door, wishing she were standing on the other side of it.

The doorbell rang again, and this time Skye’s dad answered it. The guest offered him a white envelope wrapped with thin black and white ribbons. Skye wondered what was in the envelopes, but she couldn’t ask her dad in front of the guest. When she saw Hiroshi come in from outside, she went over to ask him.

“It’s
koden,
condolence money for the family,” Hiroshi explained. “You don’t have this tradition?”

Skye shook her head. “Is it supposed to make us feel any better? Because if it is, it’s not working.”

“I know.” Hiroshi looked as miserable as Skye felt.

Her dad waved them over as the guests filed into the living room. Skye spotted the tablet on the altar and nudged Hiroshi. “I know my Japanese isn’t perfect, but that’s not Grandfather’s name.”

Hiroshi whispered back, “It’s the
kaimyo
—the name the priest inscribed on the tablet. Another tradition.”

“So it’s the priest’s name?”

“No, it’s Grandfather’s new name.”

Skye frowned. “Why does he need a new name?”

“It’s for his next life. He’s supposed to follow a path leading across the Sanzu River. Now that he has a new name, his spirit won’t come back whenever we use his old name; he’ll keep following the path.”

Skye shook her head. “But I don’t want his spirit to go away. I want him to stay.”

“Me, too.” Hiroshi sighed. “Father says we’re supposed to come home from the funeral parlor using a different route from the one we use to get there. So Grandfather’s spirit won’t get confused and follow us home.”

Who cares about tradition?
Skye thought. She had an idea. “So what if we don’t?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t what?”

“Take a different path?”

A slow grin spread across Hiroshi’s face. “We can ride our bikes back home.”

Skye nodded. “The funeral parlor isn’t far from the park, and we ride our bikes there all the time.”

“Skye, Hiroshi—” Her mom put her hands on their shoulders. “We’re about to begin.”

Everyone was kneeling on cushions in front of the altar, which was piled with fruit and flowers. Skye knelt between her parents. Chin down, she snuck a peek at the open casket. She couldn’t see inside from where she was kneeling, which was good; she wasn’t sure if she wanted to see Grandfather this way.

The priest came into the room, and everyone stopped whispering. Facing the altar, the priest bowed, lit some incense, and began the reading. One by one, family members approached the casket. As Grandfather’s eldest sons, Skye’s dad and Hiroshi’s father went first. They bowed before adding incense to an urn, then bowed again before returning to their places. Their younger brothers rose and approached the casket.

Skye’s mom squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to go up if you don’t want to,” she whispered. Skye wasn’t sure. Maybe it was better to remember Grandfather as he used to be, smiling and gentle.

“If I go, how do I know when it’s my turn?”

Her mom whispered back, “The sons go first, then the wives, then the children.”

Skye’s uncles returned to their cushions, and their wives and Hiroshi’s mother stood. Skye’s mom stayed on her cushion.

“Mom, aren’t you going?”

She nodded. “I think I’m supposed to follow the others, since I’ve only known—knew—him a short while.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I wish I could have had more time with him.”

Skye squeezed her mom’s hand. Three pairs of women’s slippers stopped in front of her mom’s knees. When Skye looked up, her aunts smiled, inviting her mom to come with them.

“Oh.” Her mom looked flustered, but then she nodded and smiled and got up to join them.

Skye watched carefully so she would know what to do if she decided to go. Hiroshi would go next, so she had time to decide. But once her mom returned with the aunts, Hiroshi came over and stood next to Skye. She looked up, and he nodded toward the casket. “We’re next,” he whispered.