Full Cicada Moon (17 page)

Papa went to a conference in Boston three days ago

and is supposed to come back today, Christmas Eve.

But he called us at two thirty

to say he's still four hours away

because the traffic is crawling

after the snowstorm.

“Okay,” Mama says,

but I know she wants him home now,

just like I do.

I hear Papa say, “I love you,”

and she answers, “Drive carefully,” which means

“I love you, too.”

While we wait, Mama and I write
nengajo
,

our New Year cards, which we'll mail after Christmas.

Then she makes a pumpkin pie

and I go upstairs to wrap presents—

Papa's record, Stacey's record,

which I put in a shoebox,

and Timothy's Cheez-Its,

his favorite.

Then I refold Mama's scarf in the Cottle's box

and wrap the box in Christmas paper

and a gold bow.

And so that she never has to guess, I write on the tag:

Merry Christmas, Mama.

I love you.

A car comes up the driveway

and a door slams shut.

Papa is home!

Then another door shuts

and another and another.

Then the front door bursts open

and in tumbles Papa—

and Auntie and Uncle and Shelley and Sharon!

“Surprise!” they all shout.

“Merry Christmas!”

Mama covers her mouth with her apron

and sinks to the stairs.

“Bikkurishita!”
she says. “So surprised!”

Her eyes glisten as she looks at her family.

“Emiko, dear,” Auntie says

and sits next to Mama,

who's shaking.

“Aren't you happy to see us?”

Mama nods hard, and says,

“I thought you were ghosts.”

Auntie holds out her arm. “Feel—

I'm real.” Then,

“Mimi, bring your mom a glass of water.”

After Mama recovers,

they tell the story—

Uncle Kiyoshi sold the house we had lived in

and their apartment building

because he had too much to manage

and wants to travel before he dies.

Papa knew about their trip here for weeks

and kept it a secret

for Christmas.

“How long will you stay?” Mama asks.

“Until the girls have to go back to school

on January fifth.”

“Then you'll have to leave on New Year, right?”

“No, Auntie,” Sharon says. “We flew here.”

Nobody's saying

(but we're all thinking)

that now our relatives are rich.

Last Christmas, we were in Berkeley

without Papa.

This year, we're all in Vermont

together.

“This is for Mama,” Papa says,

waving the box with a gold bow.

I give it to her, with a

“Merry Christmas!”

“Thank you, Mimi-chan,” she says,

sliding her fingernails under the seam

to save the paper.

I hold my breath while she lifts the lid

and takes out the scarf. It floats around her throat.

“So beautiful,” she says.

Her smile makes up for my empty pocket.

“You must have saved up all your money

for this scarf.”

“And here's one for you, Meems,” Papa says,

handing me a small Cottle's box.

“Is it from you?” I ask Papa. He shakes his head,

and Mama says, “A delivery man brought it yesterday.”

The tag says:

To Mimi

From Santa

in small printed letters.

Inside,

tissue paper . . .

more tissue paper . . .

then . . .

the Apollo coin.

My coin! But from who?

“This is so weird . . .”

I start to tell everyone about the scarf—

but stop

because Mama would return it if she knew.

I want to know who gave me back my coin,

but I also want to still believe in Santa.

“We're going to have a real
osh
o
gatsu
,” Mama said,

thanks to Papa and our cousins,

who brought the special food from California.

After Christmas

we cleaned the house like tornadoes,

sweeping and scrubbing and dusting

and moving

and throwing out,

so that everything would be shiny and new,

like 1970.

The
nengajo
—New Year cards—had come all week.

Mama told me to put them in the kitchen drawer

and not read them

until New Year's Day,

or we'd have bad luck.

Yesterday—the last day of 1969—

Sharon and Shelley and I helped Mama and Auntie Sachi

make black beans, sweet omelets, red-and-white fish cakes, and vegetables

for
oshogatsu
.

We chopped and stirred and boiled and stewed,

then put our New Year food in red-and-gold trays.

This morning, I wake up

next to Shelley, who's next to Sharon.

My bed is cramped,

but we wanted to make up for a year apart.

The sun is rising through the clouds.

I tiptoe downstairs.

Mama is already awake.

She gives me an envelope, and says, “
Akemashite
omedeto
gozaimasu!

Happy New Year!”

Inside is a brand-new five-dollar bill

that smells like fresh ink

and feels like a new leaf.

Then Papa comes into the kitchen

and says, “Happy New Year!”

And one by one, everyone wakes up

and says, “Happy New Year!”

Then no one says anything, and Mama

is looking like Mifune.

Papa whispers to me, “No man has come to the house.”

“Oh, that's right,” I say.

She pours warm sake into a shallow cup and gives it to Papa.

He raises the cup, in thanks for a good year, and drinks.

Then he pours some for Uncle

and then for Mama

and then for Auntie.

Shelley and Sharon and I have some, too.

When I sip, the sake prickles my throat

and warms me all the way to my forehead.

We giggle

and after one sip, we stack our cups

and ask for cocoa.

Then Mama brings the nengajo from the drawer,

and we open them one by one.

“Here's one from Mr. Singh,” she says.

Mr. Singh shared an office with Papa at Berkeley.

“How did he know about these?”

“Word must get around,” Papa says.

Then Mama picks up another card.
“Nani?”
she says,

and hands it to Papa.

He reads it, then takes off his glasses,

and says, “Excuse me,” and leaves the room.

Mama shows me the card.

It's from Aunt Eleanor,

Papa's little sister,

and I think,
It's a step
.

After Mama wipes her eyes,

I ask, “If Uncle Kiyoshi comes across the threshold,

does that count for good luck?”

“No. He's family,” she says,

and her brow puckers again.

But as we're cleaning the kitchen,

the doorbell rings. “I'll get it,” I say.

“Maybe it's a man!”

I open the door

and can't believe who I see—

Mr. Dell.

And Timothy's standing behind him

with a face that says

“Remember this day.”

Mr. Dell pulls his checkered cap

off his head. “Are your parents home?”

“Y-yes. Come in,” I say.

Papa and Mama come out to greet them.

Mama's wiping her hands on her apron.

“Happy New Year,” Papa says,

and shows them into the living room.

“My uncle has something to say,” Timothy says

after they sit down.

Mr. Dell lays his cap beside him

and runs his hand through his hair.

“Did you have breakfast?” Mama asks,

and Auntie comes in with a tray of coffee.

“Thank you, ma'am,” Mr. Dell says,

and then, “Please stay here, Mimi.”

I sit on the edge of the hassock,

so I can make a quick exit if I need to.

Mr. Dell takes a sip of coffee,

and then says, “When you pardoned those turkeys—

or when you found Pattress—

I knew I needed to say this. It has nagged me

and it won't let go.”

Auntie comes in with orange juice for Timothy.

“I owe you an apology,” he says.

“For what?” Papa asks,

and Mr. Dell raises his hand.

“Good neighbors are hard to come by.

I've been a terrible neighbor. I've been a terrible . . . person.”

He squeezes one fist and then the other.

“I flew missions in the war—

over Tokyo, ma'am,” he says to Mama.

“I dropped bombs. It wasn't hard

if I didn't think about where they were going.

And, I'm sorry, but all these years I haven't thought about

where they went. But then you folks moved in.”

“And we reminded you,” Papa says.

Mr. Dell looks away.

“So, even though I don't deserve it,

I'm asking for your pardon.

Just like for those turkeys.”

Mama slips her hand up to her mouth

to cover a smile. I know what she's thinking—

that Mr. Dell isn't a turkey—

because it's what I'm thinking, too.

Instead, she says, “Don't worry, Mr. Dell.

We will all be good neighbors now.”

Mr. Dell takes his cap and stands to leave.

“I just wanted you to understand,

and I hope one day you will forgive me.”

Mama says, “You are pardoned.”

After Mr. Dell shakes Papa's hand,

he looks at me with a little nod.

I'm not afraid of him anymore—

in fact, I like him,

because now I know what's underneath his crust.

I might never have this chance again,

so I say, “Thank you for the present.”

Mr. Dell frowns like he's trying to remember

and says, “I don't know what you mean.”

Then he and Timothy leave,

and Mama and Papa and I go down the walk with them,

saying “Watch your step” and “It's cold out here,”

and wait until our neighbors go back home.

Then I say, “That was weird,”

but Mama says, “That is love.”

I used to think the people of Vermont

were like the snow—

crusty,

chilly,

and slow to thaw.

But now I think

they're what's underneath.

Like the crocus bulbs making flowers all winter

in the dark earth—

invisible until they push through the snow—

and like the cicadas growing

underground for years—

until they burst from the ground—

the people of Vermont

do their hardest thinking

and their richest feeling

deep inside,

so no one can see.

A few hours later,

Baby Cake comes with her mom and dad.

She toddles into the house, and says,

“
omedeto
,”
in her baby way.

Mama hands her an
omochi
ball

and then a money envelope,

which Dr. Haseda puts in her pocketbook right
away

so Kate won't eat it.

Then Timothy comes back.

“It's boring over there,” he says,

and soon Stacey comes with her parents.

The adults go into the living room

to watch the Rose Parade,

and the rest of us sit at the table

and play Go Fish and Old Maid and Crazy Eights

because we can't play any card games in our house

that use money or have names like liquor.

“It's too bad there aren't any boys here,”

Sharon says, “or we could play Truth or Dare.”

“Excuse me,” Timothy says, sweeping his cards into his hand.

“You're different—you're Mimi's friend,” she says, and we all laugh.

Baby Cake is sitting in my lap.

She keeps grabbing my cards,

but I'd rather play Pat-a-Cake with her

and name her toes—

Piggy Wiggy

Penny Rudy

Rudy Whistle

Mary Hossle

I grasp her big toe

aaaannd

—Kate wiggles and squeals—

Big Tom Bumble!

Then I notice the TV sound is soft,

and Papa is talking very low.

All of us in the kitchen

whisper our game.

“Got a queen?” “Go fish.”

“I might be heading up a new program

in the fall,” Papa says. “African American studies.”

“That would be a great opportunity for you,”
Dr. Haseda says.

“Yes,” Papa says, and sighs. “And a lot of work.

But the administration sees a new decade ahead

with changes.”

“Congratulations, man,” Rick says,

to the clink of many glasses,

and Papa says, “So, we'll be staying here for a while.”

And I hear more clinks.

In the kitchen Shelley says, “A toast

to your dad,” and we all lift our glasses

of ginger ale and Tab and root beer.

She clinks my glass

and says, “
omedeto gozaimasu
 . . .

y'all!”

We girls are sleeping in my room—

Shelley and Sharon and I in my bed

and Stacey in the rollaway.

Outside, the waning crescent

is just a peel of a moon.

“Do you sleep on the floor at home?” Stacey asks.

“No,” Sharon says, “but we can here.”

We all get out of bed

and put the mattresses on the floor.

“This is how to sleep
Nihon-teki
,” Shelley says.

“What did you dream about last night?” Stacey asks.

I had told her about
hatsuyume
.

Sharon says, “I had a bad dream—

a rat was chasing me around the house

and trying to bite me.”

“I hate those dreams,” Stacey says. “Then

I'm so happy to wake up.”

Shelley says, “Mine was a nightmare, too—

school started early and I didn't have my homework.”

“I hate those dreams,” I say.

I wonder if my cousins are lying.

I wonder if they really had good dreams

but don't want to tell them—

don't want to let them go.

Then Stacey says, “I dreamed I was riding in a car

with Victor, and Mother was driving.

I wonder what that meant.”

“You'll have to write and tell us,” Sharon says.

“What about Mimi's dream?” she asks,

and they all turn to me.

I dreamed about flying again,

this time in a spaceship.

I will not let go of that dream,

so I say, “Hmm,

I didn't dream last night.”

Then I close my eyes to the moon,

and the girls keep talking. Soon

their voices sound like snow against the windows.

I am drifting

to sleep,

eager

to fly again.