The War Between the Classes (Laurel-Leaf Contemporary Fiction) Page 9

“I'd call, but she's a class-A worrier and Sue said she'd never forgive me if I did. I wanted to phone the doctor, but she says I'm making too much of it.”

  “Do you want me to look in on her after school?”

  “Oh, would you, Amy? I'd feel so much better knowing you're with her. When can you get there?”

  Wednesdays I tutored Bettina, but I didn't tell Hideo that. Pd just phone and change the date. “I'll be there by three and stay until you get home, so don't worry. She'll be fine. It's probably nothing.”

  Preoccupied, I went off to school hoping Sue wasn't going to lose the baby. A slight drizzle turned into a steady rain and I ran the last block holding my zippered notebook over my head.

  Just as I reached the school steps Brian stopped me. He seemed to be waiting just for me, or was I being paranoid?

  “Hello, Amy,” he greeted. “Typical of an Orange—being late. Let's see your journal.”

  “Now?”

  “Now. Your journal, please.”

  “Can I just get out of the rain?”

  “You'll stand here until I see that journal!”

  Why was he doing this? Because I wouldn't go out with him? Other students rushed by, barely noticing, intent on getting under cover. There was nothing to do except give him the journal as fast as possible so I could be done with it and get into school. I shivered as the rain wet through my sweater, but unzipped my notebook, pulled out the journal, and handed it to him.

  Waiting there, notebook on head, getting wetter by the minute from the slanting rain, I hated him and hated the way he made me feel, stupid, and unimportant, and … without value. I tried to stand proudly as if I didn't care, thinking that if he'd offered to share his umbrella at that moment, I'd refuse. At last, after what seemed minutes, during which he browsed slowly through the pages of my journal, he returned it to me and waved me on.

  “Thanks, Brian,” I said coldly. “You're a real sport.”

  “Thought you needed a lesson, Amy. Your fellow Blues are really pissed oflF about you. They're out to get you for betraying them, so watch it!”

  Betraying them? I troubled over Brian's words all the way to my first class, where I arrived cold, wet, and late. When I fell into my seat, someone poked me in the shoulder. “Oranges sit in back,” Carol said, a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes, “behind their superiors.”

  “Oh, for goodness sakes!” I exclaimed. “That's ridiculous.”

  “I'm just going by the rules,” she added. “The way you should have!”

  “Carol? Amy?” the teacher called out so the whole class turned to look at us.

  Seething, but not wanting to make a scene, I picked up my books, turned my back on Carol, and took another seat. Being an Orange seemed such a hassle, having to bow so much, be on guard all the time, take insults from everyone and pretend it didn't hurt. I felt so unbalanced by it all that I couldn't settle down to concentrate.

  We'd been assigned to read Down These Mean Streets, a book by Piri Thomas about being Puerto Rican. So that's what we talked about in Otero's class that day. The book was about Thomas's life in the streets, stealing and dealing drugs. He “looked” black and when his family moved to a mostly white neighborhood, he didn't fit in. Just like when you change colors in the Color Game, I thought, glancing down at my blue and orange color bands.

  Pretty soon the Latinos and other minorities in class got to talking, telling the kinds of things you only tell really good friends. They almost seemed to forget where they were or who was listening.

  “My grandfather crossed the border when he was only twelve,” Raul said. “He came from such poor people, they couldn't afford to feed him. He worked as a farm laborer most of his life, fourteen hours a day, and sent money ‘home.’ “

  “My father was a Vietnam hero,” Gwen said. “But when he got out of the service, he couldn't get a job. Because he was black. “

  “It's not just color that makes it so hard,” Juan added, “it's being poor. When you have very little money you can't afford decent housing so you live where it's crowded and noisy, where crime and drugs are a way of life because it's the only way to get money. Your kids don't eat well, so they're sick more often, and doctors cost. Poverty is what separates people, maybe even more than color.”

  “It's a vicious circle, a Catch-22,” Otero said. “If color prevents you from getting work, because you're labeled inferior, you lose your self-respect and ambition. You can't support a family and, feeling guilty, may leave them. The family suffers. The children see how their parents couldn't make it because of color, so maybe they don't even try. But things are changing. They appear to be getting better. Education is still the ladder to economic success.”

  I don't think we arrived at any real conclusions, but when the bell rang I felt a closeness among the students that hadn't been there before. I guess it was from opening up to each other. Maybe it wouldn't last, but at least it was a beginning.

  I phoned Mrs. Tardier right after class, a lump of fear settling in my stomach. Adam waited nearby, talking with friends. Somehow his mother always made me feel awkward without reason, guilty without cause. “Mrs. Tardier?” I asked in a voice not at all mine.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Amy. Amy Sumoto?”

  “Yes? What is it, Amy?”

  I told her about Sue and how I'd make up Bettina's lesson Saturday if it would be convenient.

  “This is very short notice,” Adam's mother said. “If I'd known before Bettina left for school, I'd have made other arrangements.”

  “I didn't want to phone too early,” I explained, “for fear of waking you. I'm sorry.”

  “I'm not sure about Saturday,” she said, ignoring my apology. “I'll let you know.”

  “All right. Good-bye …” I hung up. She hadn't offered a word of sympathy about Sue—not a word. How could Adam be so kind and warm and his mother so cold and unfeeling?

  Getting to the phone had taken some doing. In just one day of being an Orange, I'd discovered the secret to survival —anonymity. If you walked briskly or smiled or made eye contact you were sure to be stopped by a G4 or a higher color. So, I did the opposite. Whenever I saw a G4 headed my way, I about-faced, or hid in a cluster of regular students, eyes averted. It never occurred to me, until I did that, how many kids just blended into the background routinely in school.

  Adam drove me to Sue's place right after school. “We need to talk,” I said. “But not now.” We kissed quickly, then he drove off, already late for soccer practice.

  Hideo had said he'd leave a key under a flowerpot so I wouldn't have to disturb Sue. I found the key and opened the door, calling out Sue's name so as not to scare her.

  “In here,” she answered from the bedroom.

  She was in bed, hair tousled like a sleepy child's and face unusually pale. She gave me a wan smile.

  I dropped my books on the floor and bent to kiss her. “Hi, how's it going? Want some tea?”

  “No … no … nothing. Just sit down and keep me company.”

  I sat on the bed facing her and took her hand. “Are you okay? Are the cramps gone?”

  She shook her head. “No. But let's not talk about that. Just talk to me.”

  I told her about things at school, and about the plans we'd made for the rally. I told her about Adam, how we seemed to be edgy with each other, how I found myself holding back since I'd found out about his weekend party.

  She watched me, eyes glistening, but I felt she was someplace else, listening to some inner sounds, rather than to me. She seemed to need my presence and the monotone of my voice, so I talked on. I had about run out of things to say when Sue drew her hand away, turned her head and began to cry. My heart lurched.

  “Sue, Sue! What is it?”

  “Oh, Amy, I'm so scared!” She sobbed.

  I waited for her to go on, afraid of what she'd say, but after a time she turned back to me, eyes wet and red. “I've been hemorrhaging.”

  “Oh, no.”

 
“We want this baby so much. It means so much to us, to … everything….”

  “I know, I know,” I crooned. “Listen, I'll call the doctor.”

  She shook her head. “I phoned already. The only thing I can do is stay in bed and rest. He wants to see me tomorrow.”

  “Maybe it will be all right. Sometimes it happens….” What did I know about pregnancy? Yet it seemed the only hopeful thing to say. “Should I call Hideo?”

  “He's in San Francisco.”

  I jumped up. “I'll phone Mama. Papa.” My mind raced. Mama might be at the store, or on her way home. Papa might be anywhere. Sue's mother lived out of town, too far away to come quickly. Before I'd even left the room, Sue stopped me.

  “Amy, no. Please …”

  “Why, Sue? Why not?”

  She started to cry then, really cry. Big, deep sobs with her hands over her eyes. I came back to the bed and put my arms around her, rocking her to me, back and forth.

  “Everything depends on this baby,” she mumbled into my shoulder. “Everything. It's not just that we want it. It's so important to your parents. It's the only way they'll really accept me. I can't stand to see how it tears Hideo apart— this … strangeness … since we married. He needs them, your parents. Their acceptance and love. The baby … makes all the difference.”

  “Oh, no, Sue. No. That's not true. Really! My parents love you. They just don't know how to show it. Give them time. They don't show emotion much, but how could they not love you?”

  And I thought, oh, Mama, Papa. How could you hurt this sweet, good woman—just because she's not Japanese?

  Mama and Papa arrived shortly before Hideo reached home. They came into the bedroom carrying flowers from our garden. For Sue's sake, I wished Mama would kiss her, or Papa would touch her arm—some gesture of love. But it was not their way. Mama almost immediately bustled into the kitchen to put the flowers in water and fix a special tea she said would help stop the bleeding. And Papa sat on a kitchen chair, hands in lap, looking awkward and miserable.

  “I'm so sorry,” Sue apologized, trying hard for cheerfulness. “I really should get up and fix something … Mama shouldn't have to—”

  Papa waved her back. “No … daughter-in-law …” Immediately he corrected himself. “No, Sue. You must do what the doctor says. Rest flat in bed. We do not want anything to happen to your baby, our grandchild. Or to

  11

  Journal entry, Friday, November 3: I can't believe Otero's test.

  The G4's handed out the question sheets as soon as the bell rang. By color. Which meant we Oranges got the questions last.

  Full of impossible multiple choice and true-false, and even essay, questions, it was so hard and long I didn't even finish. But others did. When I looked up, about thirty-five minutes into the test, Blues and Dark Greens were leaving in droves. They seemed to find it easy.

  “How come?” I asked when we gathered outside the classroom afterward. “Could they be smarter?”

  Juan snorted.

  “It had to be rigged,” Adam said. “Otero's trying to teach us one of his little lessons.’ Probably trying to say that poor people and ethnic groups don't test well because of language problems and cultural differences.”

  Of course he was right. Success in school does depend a whole lot on test taking. Which doesn't make me feel better, considering I expect to fail.

  Sue lost the baby.

  I learned of it when I reached home. She answered the phone in such a dead tone that I knew right away. “No, please don't come now/’ she said. “Hideo is here and I just want to be quiet. Tonight, if you like. I'm going back to work Monday. It will be good seeing the …” Her voice trailed off as if she couldn't bring herself to say “children.”

  I hung up and sat for a long time just staring out the window at Mama's garden. My throat felt tight with tears. It took a long time to find positive things to think—that Sue was young and could have other children. Small consolations.

  When Mama and Papa reached home I told them the news. Mama nodded, and went immediately to fix supper. “It will be hard for them,” she said quietly. “No matter how many children they have, they'll always wonder about this one, the one they lost.”

  Papa went to the sink to wash his hands as usual, then sat down at the table and picked up the newspaper.

  “We should go over there tonight,” I said, watching Papa and growing angrier with each second of his silence.

  “Yes,” Mama said.

  “You're not fair to Sue, Papa!” I burst out. It was so uncharacteristic for me to raise my voice that Papa looked up and his eyes grew big and dark. Before he could stop me I raced on. “Hideo loves her! Can't you see it in his eyes? Don't you care that she makes him happy?” I wiped tears from my cheeks. “She needs to know that you accept her, that you like her and maybe someday may even love her! Can't you open your heart a little, Papa? Can't you?”

  “That's enough, Emiko,” Papa cried. “Quite enough! The egg doesn't tell the chicken how to act!”

  “Papa!” I cried, then closed my mouth and lowered my eyes at the warning look on his face. Mama turned away, busying herself at the stove.

  It was hard to love Papa at this moment. Though Fd grown up without many words of love, without much touching, at least from my father, I always knew that deep down, he cared. But now that wasn't enough. He needed to show something of his feelings. Sue came from a family in which words and gestures of love were part of every day. She thrived on it, and she gave it generously; maybe that's why she made Hideo so happy.

  Unable to let it go, I asked, “What can we do for her, Mama, what?”

  Papa shook his head in annoyance, put down the newspaper, and strode from the room. I supposed he would run off to his workshop, his hideaway from the world.

  Mama wiped her hands and came to the table. She touched my arm. “Come with me, Emiko, I want to show you something.”

  I followed Mama up the stairs to her workroom. It's where she sews and does bills, and writes letters to our big family in Hawaii and Utah. Once she showed me some haiku she had written, hand trembling as she offered the pages to me. “I don't know if they are any good,” she said.

  They were beautiful poems, whole scenes compacted into a few words, full of feeling, perfect miniatures. She had flushed with pleasure at my delight.

  Mama went right to the carved black-and-gold chest that had come over from Japan with Grandpa, and opened it. She lifted several things out of the way, then removed two packages wrapped in brightly colored tissue paper.

  “This, I made for the baby … and this …”

  I brought the packages to the small couch and sat down to open them. In the first I found a mobile. Origami birds in brilliant colors suspended by string from a smooth wooden rod, something Papa must have made in his workshop. My throat tightened. They were so like the mobile Mama liad made years ago to hang over my bed. I seemed to recall the sunny bedroom of my infancy and the many hours when I watched with wonder or reached for these colorful birds who flew above me with each breath of wind.

  Mama watched anxiously as I opened the second package. It contained a tiny pale-green sweater, cap, and booties. Tears came to my eyes and then Mama said, “Come with me.”

  Wondering what more she had to show, I followed her into her bedroom. There, on a black lacquered table near the window, stood the bonsai in its earthenware pot that has been in our family for two hundred years. Bonsai is an art form passed down from father to son. The plants are pruned and fertilized so that they grow into dwarf versions of ancient stately trees. Our family's bonsai was special in that it consisted of not one tree, but a grouping which suggested a wooded mountainside.

  I looked to Mama, questioningly.

  “Papa planned to give this to Hideo when the child was born. I think, now, he will give it to him anyway.”

  Mama's eyes held mine, and I understood more in that look than words could say. I went to her and put my arms around her and we stood t
hat way together for many moments.

  Hideo answered the door to us that evening. He looked so drawn, so strained, as if he could hardly keep control. Without a word I embraced him, and then Mama did. Papa, behind us, carried the bonsai.

  Hideo greeted Papa, then his eyes fell to the plant. He took a deep breath and his glance returned to Papa. Then he rubbed an eye and said, “Come in. Sue's in bed. I was just making tea.”

  Mama started taking off her coat. “I brought some cakes. I'll fix the tea. You all go in to Sue.”

  Hideo brought me and Papa into the bedroom. “We've been having an argument. Sue thinks she can go back to school Monday as if nothing has happened. I say she should stay home a few days at least. That's what the doctor says, too.”

  “I can't—don't you understand? I feel so useless, so empty….” Sue sounded all choked up. “I'll be all right. Just let me get back to work.”

  “You will not go to work!”

  “That's my decision, Hideo, not yours!”

  Papa had quietly placed the bonsai on the dresser, but Sue had been so intensely involved with Hideo that she had not even noticed. Now Papa stood at the head of the bed. “Hideo is right. You must take care of yourself. For your own sake, as well as his. And for all of us … who care.”

  Sue opened her mouth to speak, then her eyes closed and tears slowly slid down her cheeks. Hideo took her into his arms. When she finally gained control, Hideo said, “Look, honey, what Papa has brought us.”

  Sue wiped her eyes and blew her nose as Hideo brought the bonsai to the bedside table. “It's … beautiful,” she cried in awe. “So beautiful!” Eyes sparkling with tears, she looked at Papa.

  “It is a small piece of Japan to remind you and Hideo of our heritage,” he said. “When your son is born, Sue—and you will have a son one day—he must learn from Hideo how to care for it so that he, too, can pass it on.”

  “Oh!” Sue exclaimed. “Oh, my! I'm going to cry again! Thank you. Thank you so much, Papa Sumoto,” she whispered.

  Mama bustled in, smiling, carrying a tray with teapot and cups and a platter of luscious-looking sweets. She poured the tea and soon we were all talking and laughing like a real family. And as we left, Sue's eyes were shining again as she looked from the bonsai to Hideo, and to Papa.