great river.
“My arms are aching badly, really badly,” Hiroshi complained, filling the silence. He knew the complaint would get him nowhere, but he made it anyway. He had carried the gallon water jug all the way from the shack. Father glanced over at Hiroshi, but he did not reprimand. Carrying water was Hiroshi’s job, whether he wanted it or not.
Keiko’s job in this season was to help Mother with the canning and preserving, but she also worked in the gardens, picking tomatoes. There were no more classes held by Keiko on the slope above camp, but she continued to find and share materials for drawing and copying, and she helped me with reading and printing lessons. She and her friends had also persuaded an eighty-four-year-old woman in camp to teach Japanese dancing. At night, when the chores were done, the girls went to the community room to learn from the woman, who had once been a dancing teacher in Vancouver.
My own chores were not difficult these days. I, too, picked tomatoes. I also carried armloads of wood into the shack for the stove, and I stacked wood outside after Father had finished chopping. Most of the time, Father was after me to stop daydreaming. Sometimes he rapped my head with his knuckles because I wasn’t paying attention. “When you aren’t so scrawny, when you grow taller and bigger, you won’t be spending hours over your scribblings,” he said. “You’ll be taking your share of family responsibility, like everyone else.”
But he kept me busy, all the same. There were summer days when I worked for hours stacking wood into tidy rows behind our shack. If even one log or piece of kindling stuck out crookedly, he came out and knocked the woodpile apart and made me start over again.
Despite Father, I did find time to draw. Mother helped by putting away bits of cardboard for me, and these were hidden under the edge of the mattress. Sometimes, during the summer months, I was able to get away from the whole family and climb the trail to the Bench. I sat up there by myself on a tree stump on the side of the mountain, and I looked down over sagebrush and rolling tumbleweed, the outhouses, the rows of shacks, the gardens on the far side of the dirt road, the water tanks with wooden bungs in the sides and the river in the deepest part of the ravine.
From high up, it was easy to tell which shack belonged to my family because of the neatness of the woodpile and because of the crooked window at the back. Sometimes I would see Hiroshi come around the side of the house with our bows and arrows, and he would look in all directions, searching for me. If I didn’t feel like playing in the woods, I ducked back into the shadows before he had a chance to look up. And there were others to watch, too. Our community was in perpetual motion: people walking or standing in different attitudes and postures; sixty-one shacks to observe and draw, some with oddly proportioned additions—lean-tos, wooden bathhouses, overhangs to keep woodpiles dry, pits dug for earth cellars, tiny rooms or shelves added to the side or back of a shack when there was extra space and spare lumber. There were many chicken coops now, too, including ours. Chicken manure was never wasted, and was used as fertilizer on the gardens. Because of the smell, the coops were kept at a slight distance from our homes.
I watched children my own age and younger playing on pathways and in the open space beside the schoolhouse. I once saw Hiroshi rolling a large stone down the hill below me, then hiding when it crashed into the roof of one of the outhouses. I saw Auntie Aya sitting dully on the low stool beside her door, her head tilted back as if to trap the sun on her face, her bright, lacquered combs shining as her head moved forward and back. There were days when she banged the back of her skull rhythmically against the tarpaper of the outer wall. I watched Uncle Aki come outside and soothe her, or sit beside her for a few moments and take her hand. I watched him climb a homemade ladder and replace boards on the side of his bathhouse, all the while keeping an eye on Auntie Aya, never letting her out of his sight. When he was working in the garden, he brought her to stay with Mother, who helped her with meals and with the preserving of vegetables for winter.
People greeted one another in the camp and I observed how slowly their bodies moved in the oppressive summer heat. I watched the way they crossed the road, and I watched the angle of their backs as they bent over plants in the garden plots. Voices could be heard in the mountain air: some in laughter, some in argument or irritation. Always, there was a murmur of rising sound.
When I returned home with pictures on cardboard or wood or bark—rarely on paper—Father reminded me again: “Drawing will not put rice in the pot. Drawing will not buy food from the back of Ying’s truck. Everyone in the family must contribute. Everyone must work, no matter how young.”
In fact, earlier on our picnic morning, before breakfast, I had painstakingly drawn two wild horses on a piece of boxboard, but my drawing was yanked from my hand. It disappeared and was probably tossed into the stove. I was sorry Father had taken it away from me, because I’d wanted to make it better. I had drawn the eye of the larger horse to make it look alert and ready to bolt if startled. The head of the smaller horse was tucked under the neck of the larger, but the nose of the small horse had turned out looking like the fat, long beak of a giant goose. I knew everyone would laugh at a horse that looked like a goose; I knew my drawing was a complete failure.
But on this once-a-year day, I was not going to worry about a picture that had been yanked out of my hand. Everyone in the family, including Father, was taking a holiday, and our day at the river was meant to be enjoyed.
Father completed his careful study of water conditions and now pointed downriver to fallen rocks that jutted out near the base of the cliff. These, he said, would provide shelter from the current. He led the three of us away from Mother and showed us a gravel bar where we were permitted to play in the shallows. He chose this place not only for safety; a bit farther along, he planned to throw out a line for sturgeon.
We followed again, and watched in silence while he selected a branch from the bushes and sank it into the sand. He tied a length of fishing line around the tip so it would twitch up and down if a fish was hooked, and then he anchored the line to the trunk of a cotton-wood tree. Two feet from the end, he attached bait to a large hook, and then weighted the line with an oblong-shaped rock. He lobbed it out in a high arc, and the rock sank down into the deepest part of the river.
“Now,” he said, and he was even smiling, “we will attract a big fish. Agreed?”
Hiroshi and Keiko and I nodded agreement, and then we went back to the gravel bar to play while he returned to the picnic site along the bank.
When it was time to cross to the island, Father stood and called out to us. Because I was youngest, I was left behind in care of Mother on the main shore while Father swam breaststroke alongside Hiroshi, eldest and tallest, and helped him across. Mother put her hands on my shoulders from behind, and we watched while Father returned for Keiko and swam with her to the island, where she stood beside Hiroshi. Finally, he came back for me. Because I was small and he was big, he hoisted me onto his back and began to swim through the dark current, out and out to the island and the swiftest part of the river.
But I was already slippery from playing in the shallow water, and because my arms did not reach all the way around to his chest, I was terrified that my fingers would let go. If I put pressure on his neck, he would be sure to make an angry noise. So I hung on and hung on, certain that I could do nothing to save myself if I slipped off. I knew that Father was strong, and I willed the muscles of his arms to push the swirls of treacherous water behind us. At the same time, I knew that I would never forget this moment, and my exhilaration became tangled up with the fear of sliding off my father’s back.
While one part of me believed that the journey to the island would never end, another part of me was watching the colours of the river. Ever since that day, I have been able to describe them as if I were once again in its middle. First, there was a surprising change from muddy brown to marble green. Then from marble green to sparkling turquoise. We neared a second gravel bar and I was relieved to see the river bottom, clear and close. Before I had time to be thankful, I was lifted in one strong movement and set on my feet in shallow water. For a few seconds I stood, lightheaded, and then I realized that while I had been worrying about slipping off Father’s back, I had forgotten to think about Mother.
I turned to look, and I was surprised to see that the dark channel of rough water had so easily divided our family into two parts.
“Mother!” I called out. “Swim across. I’ll wait for you.”
But she only smiled and waved, and stayed where she was.
The midday light had made its way down to the clearing, and when I scrunched my eyelids almost shut, golden needles of sun glinted against the blackness of Mother’s hair. Her hair was long but she had bangs and, always, the two curls, one on either side of her forehead. She seemed to be thinking about something when I called
