Free Cherry Blossom Baseball by Jennifer Maruno Page B

factory to the office of the assistant general manager. On the wall behind his desk was a framed photograph of a warplane.
    â€œSee that, Sam?” Mr. Downey said. “The factory produces veneer for propellers as well. It’s doing its part for this darn war.”
    Sam barely glanced at the photograph. Michiko knew he did not want to be reminded of the war that had removed them from their home.
    Mr. Downey gave his order for winter wood and sawdust. He stuffed his copy into his back pocket and turned to them. “Now,” he said, “we can get your wife a basket.” He strode off toward a set of wooden stairs that led up the side of the building.
    Sitting in a dusty corner on the second floor of the factory were two wooden benches. On one sat a set of simple tools. On the other was a small, thin man.
    â€œI could have picked you up a basket myself,” Mr. Downey said. “But I thought you would like to meet Mr. Takahashi. Market baskets are his speciality.”
    The Japanese man on the bench rose slowly, brushed the knees of his pants, wiped his fingers on a cloth, and extended his hand to her father.
    Sam took the man’s hand in both of his and pumped it up and down. “Happy to meet you,” he said with a large grin.
    Michiko held her breath. Will they begin to speak Japanese? If they do, will it be all right, or will my father get in trouble?
    â€œI think,” Mr. Downey said, “it would be easier for both of you to speak in private, if you know what I mean.” He looked at Michiko, winked, and left.
    Michiko’s father grinned from ear to ear as he launched into a lengthy spatter of Japanese words that were returned with equal enthusiasm and speed. It seemed as if they would talk forever, until Mr. Takahashi moved to his place on the empty bench and to Michiko’s great surprise grabbed a handful of tacks from the bucket at his feet and tossed them into his mouth.
    She watched the small Japanese man shape and weave several splints of wood around a rectangular block of wood, tacking them neatly in place with his hammer. Mr. Takahashi’s hand moved from his mouth to the basket so fast, it was as if he was a machine himself. Using a small set of shears, he nipped the edges of the splints to make them even and attached two more strips of wood for trim. These were of darker and heavier veneer than the woven bed.
    After he attached the handle, Mr. Takahashi spat the last of the tacks into his hand, tossed them back into the bucket, and handed Michiko the basket.
    She ran her hand across the bottom and along the insides and then put it over her arm. Michiko knew how much her mother valued handmade items that showed care and precision. “ Arigato ,” she said quietly.
    Mr. Takahashi gave a bouncing kind of nod and smiled.
    Sam reached into his pocket and removed several dollar bills, but Mr. Takahashi waved his hands about his head, refusing to touch them. Her father and the basket maker argued back and forth in Japanese until Sam put the money away. They shook hands and spoke some more. Michiko had absolutely no idea what was discussed, but she had not seen her father smile as long or as broadly in a very long time.
    That night, Michiko waited in anticipation as her mother filled their bowls with hot rice and placed a strip of steaming fish on top.
    â€œ Itadakimasu ,” she whispered before they began their meal. Sam and Michiko repeated it.
    Her father ate with steady concentration. The only sound in the room was the click of wooden chopsticks against their bowls, until Hiro’s face twisted when his father offered him a fish eye and they all burst into laughter.

Chapter 9

    JAP GIRL
    T he morning air was crisp but not cold — a perfect fall day. The breeze that brushed Michiko’s hair brought the smells of damp earth, wet grass, and fading flowers. She gathered her coat tightly to her neck as she walked to the top of the lane for the school