Strawberry Yellow (24 page)

One of their early arguments during their marriage was actually over Mas Arai. He had been arrested in Salinas for a minor theft, and Ats wanted to bail him out.

“Why? Let his people do it.” By people, Jimi meant, of course, the Arais.

“He’s alone,” Ats insisted. She didn’t care how many distant relatives he had in this country. She herself was alone after her parents had repatriated from Tule Lake to Japan immediately after the war. Not the types to forgive and forget, Ats’s father and mother had answered “no, no” to the
so-called loyalty questionnaire. Ats, their oldest daughter and almost eighteen, insisted on staying behind.

Some Nisei, especially those who had volunteered for the U.S. Army, disapproved of the stance taken by Ats’s parents. Jimi, on the other hand, admired their gumption. This same gumption was part of Ats’s genetic makeup. She knew how to stand her ground, and she stood her ground regarding Mas and his bail money.

“He’s going to have to work it off. Every bit of it, including interest,” Jimi said to his young wife as she got into the driver’s seat of a truck owned by Jabami Farms. He could still remember what she was wearing—a yellow sweater, her favorite at the time, over a cotton dress with tiny flowers. At that moment, Jimi had marveled at what a lucky man he was.

The doorbell then rang, causing Jimi to turn to the window facing Ats’s hospital bed. He saw a Sugarberry truck parked along their dirt path. He went to the front door to let his visitor in.

B
efore Mas left Watsonville for Los Angeles in 1950, Shug came down to Sacramento to say goodbye.

“We’ve had some good times over here, haven’t we?”

Mas didn’t know what to say. After Shug left for college, he had rarely heard from him. Yes, Shug had invited him and Oily early on, but it seemed to be just to participate in some kind of scientific study. Shug never told them what had happened with the blood and tissue he’d collected.

The last time Mas spoke to him, Shug had asked his opinion about Minnie.

“Sheezu nice girl,” Mas said. Minnie was indeed pleasant, a ready smile on her face. She had stayed in Watsonville and was taking teaching classes at the local junior college.

“Evelyn is sure ready to get married,” Shug said.

“Good for her,” Mas answered. And he meant it. He just didn’t want to be the fish caught in her net. He figured his move to Southern California would put an end to her advances.

“What are you planning to do in Los Angeles?”

“Gardenin’.”

“A lot of Nisei are getting into that in the big cities. You’ll do well.”

Mas swallowed and nodded. But nothing like how well you will be doing, he thought. Shug was smart and was on
his way to getting a degree from UC Davis. They were on two different tracks, headed for separate futures.

“We’ll stay in touch,” Shug said.

And they did. Christmas cards, purchased at holiday sales a day after the previous Christmas. Minnie signed for “The Arais.” And Chizuko signed theirs.

Aside from seeing each other at the occasional funeral, that had been the extent of their intimacy over the past forty years. So Mas had been puzzled, of course, about why Shug would immortalize him with his groundbreaking strawberry, the Masao. But now it was becoming clearer.

Mas attempted to reach her over the phone, but she hung up the second she heard his voice. So he had to make a face-to-face visit instead. The neighborhood was familiar, an old one, just a block past the Buddhist temple. The home was a simple one-story wood-framed house that couldn’t be much larger than eight hundred square feet.

The tiny house had many windows, at least two on every side. Even the door had a glass panel. And today each of the windows was covered, with shades drawn tightly. Mas rapped his knuckles on the door.

The curtains on the door pulled back, revealing fingers wrapped around a shotgun. Rosa’s voice was surprisingly clear through the glass. “I have a license for this. And I know how to use it.”

Mas took a few steps away from the door and turned back toward the walkway. Then came the jangle of a chain
being slid back and the popping open of the door.

“Wait,” she commanded. Mas complied.

“Nobody seen youzu at Sugarberry,” Mas spoke with his back turned to Rosa.

“I bet everyone’s relieved about that.”

“Whyzu you been away?”

Now was not the time for her to be
moku-moku
, quiet.

Mas turned around to look at Rosa, face-to-face. She was wearing a black cotton shirt and cargo pants. She looked as if she hadn’t slept all night. “You knowsu about the new strawberry.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You knowsu. I knowsu.”

Still cradling the shotgun, Rosa gestured toward her house. “Get in,” she said, “before I change my mind.”

With thick curtains over the windows and no light, the house was as dark as the mood of its inhabitant. Rosa started pacing, causing the wooden floorboards to squeak. “How can you know about the Masao? You’re still standing. Alive. Laila’s dead. Her friend who analyzed the Masao is scared to death.”

Mas frowned.

Rosa stopped pacing. “Yeah, yeah. She’s been getting death threats, anonymous ones, but we know who they’re from. And now he’s threatening to hurt Cecilia if I open my mouth. He keeps saying that this is going to save the strawberry industry, that it’s going to help a lot of people, but he’s not thinking about the people who’ll be buying and eating the Masao. He’s crazy. He’s nuts. And that’s why I’m afraid he might follow through with his threats.”

Rosa stopped to listen to the sounds of children playing in the street for a minute. “Anyway, I don’t know how he found out about me in the first place. Did you say anything to anyone about me contacting the lab?”

“No, no don’t say nuttin’,” Mas quickly replied, not sure if he had or not.

“Youzu sure he killed Laila?” he asked.

“Who else would have?”

Mas went to where he last saw Shug alone, at least when his friend was dead. The mortuary was hushed, a few loose dead leaves falling onto the walkway. He spotted a few dandelions in corners of the lawn. Weeds seemed to be the only new things alive at the mortuary today.

The front door opened easily. No one was in the front room, but a tall dark-haired woman appeared from the back. “Can I help you?” She had an easy voice, a voice that a man could tell his problems to.

“I’zu Shug Arai’s relative,” he introduced himself.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I believe I recognize you from the visitation. You came early that day.”

Mas was shocked that the woman would have remembered him. With a bunch of Nisei men about the same height and weight, it took a pretty discerning
hakujin
woman to tell them apart.

“I’zu just have question for you.”

“Of course.” The woman was eager to please, so Mas continued.

“Baseball bat, there’su one dat was in the casket.”

“Yes, yes, I already spoke to the detective about that. . . .”

“Robin Arai?”

“No, no, Sergeant Salgado. From the Watsonville Police. Like I told him, I have no idea who put that bat in the casket. I just assumed it was a member of the family; I mean, no one asked me about it at the time.”

“Not there on Friday.”

The woman nodded, blinking rapidly. “Yes, I don’t remember it being placed on the visitation day, either. It must have been the day of the funeral. I was here early, around seven-thirty, on that Saturday to prepare for another funeral. I didn’t notice anyone come in. We don’t have a problem with theft in this place, as you can well imagine. I mean, it’s quite conceivable that a loved one came in and left the memento in the casket. People do strange things when they’re in mourning.” The woman fingered a stray piece of hair and pulled it back behind her ear. “Was the bat valuable? Is that why so many people are interested in it?”

Mas didn’t answer and looked out the window. More leaves were falling from the ash tree. “You’zu tree is a bit sick,” he told her. “When the gardener come around?”

“On Saturday mornings,” she said.

“Can I getsu his phone numba?” Mas said. “I can maybe tellsu him what to do.”

One thing about an Impala, you could drive a lot faster in it than in a 1956 Ford truck that was literally duct-taped
together. Mas leaned into the curves of the road, not caring if the Highway Patrol noticed that he was going twenty miles over the speed limit. Let them come. Let them all come to Castroville.

Linus’s truck was parked by his mural-covered trailer, but Mas didn’t care. He headed straight for the fields, for the experimental crops that were behind a ten-foot-high barbed-wire fence. The entryway was locked—if only Mas had his Ford, filled with his tools, he would have had an easier way in. The Impala’s trunk only revealed a dirty blanket, empty water bottles, a tire iron, a baseball, and a spare tire—nothing that could do any damage to the barbed-wire fence. Mas examined the lock on Linus’s garage—that one also required a good pair of bolt cutters.

The Impala was shiny and freshly washed—he hated to do this, but he felt he had no other choice. Sitting in the vinyl driver’s seat, he moved the car so it faced the fence. Pulling the hand brake, he floored the gas pedal and then released the brake handle. The Impala lurched forward, the nose of the car crashing down the fence.

Next came the picking. He bent down toward the strawberry plants, his back remembering the same movement from decades ago. But instead of gently plucking each red jewel of fruit to place in a crate, Mas began tearing at the plants, pulling them from their roots and stomping on the fruit. He repeated this, dumping tangled vines in a pile.

He was destroying the third row of plants when Linus came out in his sarong, carrying a lawn chair and umbrella. He set up a shady seat a few yards from the uprooted fence and watched, sipping something exotic from a dark bottle.

Sweat washed down from Mas’s forehead, and he stopped for a moment to wipe the wetness away with his shirt sleeve.

“Would you like some kind of refreshment after all that work?” Linus finally called out.

Mas actually would have, but he would have never accepted a drink from Linus Verdorben.

“Thank you for picking these strawberries.” Linus rose from his seat and gingerly stepped on the downed chain-link fence in his sandals. He walked to the pile of plants and tugged at a strawberry that Mas had missed, popping it into his mouth.