After Mas returned home from the exams, he didnt leave the house for three days straight. He darkened all the windows and didnt even start up any fans. The whole of the house became as hot as a barbecue, but Mas didnt care. Let me be roasted alive, he thought. For three days and three nights, Mas left the phone off the hook. Nobody, not even Haruo, bothered to come around.
The television was on the whole time, the volume at low. Mas watched some of the sports broadcasts, but he wasnt a baseball fan. It was too slow, too methodical. Mas liked old-time basketball, when UCLA and coach John Wooden ruled the courts. Even Chizuko watched the games with vigor, cheering and yelling at every guy in blue who missed a basket. While Mas closely followed the point guards, Chizuko loved the tall man, Lew Alcindor. He was as awkward-looking as a giant praying mantis, but when he released that ball in a hook, it was more beautiful than any prima ballerina. When he announced that he had converted to Islam and was changing his name to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Chizuko thought he was plain crazy. How can you just change your name like that? she said. Your name is everything.
How bout you? You changed your name to Arai.
Thats different. Chizuko frowned. Women are used to that.
And back in Japan, they have
yoshi, desho
? People adopt grown men all the time to carry on the name.
Chizuko didnt like to lose a fight. People will get confuse. Hes a big-time basketball star.
Mas shook his head. Pretty soon, you wont even rememba Lew Alcindor, he told her. His past all gone.
Turns out that Mas was right. All the fans, even Chizuko, eventually adjusted to the name Kareem. Lew Alcindor was gone, and nobody seemed that sad about it.
On Tuesday morning, Mas finally dragged himself off his mattress to scramble up some old eggs, soy sauce, and rice. He heard someone rapping at his screen door. The neighbors dog again? Now the doorbell, ringing clearly after Tugs handiwork. Mas stood on tiptoe to look through the peephole in his front door. Red hair and a dark face. How had the boy figured out where he lived?
I know youre home,
Ojisan,
Yuki called out.
Mas cursed silently and finally cleared his throat after not having talked for more than seventy-two hours. I tole you that I had nutin to say.
Thats not what I heard. Yuki was almost yelling. Thats not what my grandmother said.
Mas turned the key that he had stuck in the dead-bolt lock. No sense in having the whole neighborhood hear about his business. He opened the front door to reveal Yuki behind the beat-up screen door.
Yuki was in all black, like a midnight thief. I spoke to her a couple of nights ago. His voice now was lower but intense. She told me that she lived next door to a Masao Arai back in 1945.
Mas swallowed a fistful of air.
Well? You going to let me in?
Mas held out the loose screen door, and the boy went to the living room and sat on Maris old piano bench. Why didnt you mention that you knew her?
I forget. My mind not workin too good.
Yuki stared at Mass face long and hard. Mas stared back, trying not to blink. Young people always thought old people were losing their minds. Maybe this kind of thinking would help Mas today.
She said that she even went around with you at one time.
Went around? Mas almost spit out his dentures. Nobody dated back then. Besides, it had been only one kiss, and she had been the one to go after Mas. Itsu war. No time for girlsu. She a lot older than me, anyhowsu.
Older? I thought that you didnt remember her.
Mas cursed himself. He usually didnt slip up like that, especially concerning made-up stories. He tried to cover himself. Your age. Izu not old enough to be your grandpa.
Is that so? Yuki rolled his eyes and snorted. You must be at least seventy years old.
Sixty-nine.
Close enough.
Yuki took a fresh cigarette out of his day pack and tapped it against his knee. I hope you not thinking of smoking in my house, Mas thought. It was one thing for his own Marlboros to pollute his rooms quite another for this young Japanese boy to light up his funny cigarettes inside without permission.
So who tole youzu where I live?
Asked around.
Asking questions about me? Mas was both annoyed and worried. Why would this boy go to all this trouble to find a rotting house in Altadena? Mas made it a point to get a look at the boys shoes. Black high-top sneakers, old-style, with white circles on the sides.
Look, you betta go now. I dunno nutin from fifty years ago. Izu still sick, anyhowsu. No feelin too good, rememba?
Yuki stuck the cigarette in back of his ear. He looked like he wanted to ask Mas more questions, but the old-fashioned, Japanese side of him prevailed. Honor your elders, right? thought Mas.
This isnt over,
Ojisan,
Yuki said on his way out.
No, Mas had to agree, not by a long shot.
By this time, Mas had lost his appetite. He returned to his bedroom, where his sheets were damp with sweat. After balling them up at the foot of his bed, he lay down on the bare mattress. There was an intensity to the heat; it coated his body, the entire bedroom. It had become a furnace, orange flames everywhere.
Water, Daddy, water. It was Mari, her hair tied back like an old ladys. There was a package in her hands, wrapped in a blanket.
Mas rushed over to the sink and turned the faucet. Bone dry. The tub. Dry. Shower. Dry. Mari was crying now; she needed his help. He could see her eyes dark and filled with fear. Help, Daddy, help. Everything was burning hot; the palms of his hands burned as he touched doorknobs and appliances. There was a glass door now, separating him from his daughter. Mari-
chan,
Mari-
chan,
he bellowed. Mari seemed to be getting smaller and smaller, although her head remained the same size. No, it couldnt be, but The realization hit Mas hard. Mari was melting. He pounded the glass door. Kicked it with his foot. Then it disappeared, and Mas rushed over to his daughter, whose head was barely visible in the sticky ooze of her body. Take care, Daddy, take care, she called. Mas realized she was talking about the bundle wrapped in a blanket. As Mas lifted the package, the blanket opened to reveal the charred remains of a baby. He felt vomit rise to his throat, and before he knew it, he was screaming.
Mas, Mas, old man. You were having a bad dream. Someone was pulling at his sleeve. Pure white hair and beard it was Tug Yamada.
Mas focused on the peeling paint on his ceiling. His hands brushed against the mattress. Warm but not burning. The light was dim through his dusty window blinds.
Didnt mean to scare you. The door was open, and I thought that you were in trouble.
Mas blinked. There was no daughter, no baby; at least not now.
Whatsu the time?
About seven-thirty.
Seven-thirty. Mas couldnt believe that he had slept all day after Yukis visit that morning.
Are you okay, Mas? You were really yelling a few minutes ago.
Yah, yah. Mas tried to get up, but his muscles had become as soft as pounded rice cakes.
Tug went to the door and picked up a grocery bag and his red tool kit that he had left in the hallway. Sent here by Lil, fresh peaches from Fresno, he said, gesturing to the paper bag. And I came to fix your water problem, once and for all.
Water? Mass head felt as though it were stuffed with cotton balls.
Your toilet. Last time I was here, I noticed that it was leaking. Tug walked down the hall, probably to leave the peaches in the kitchen.
Damn. Mas was finally awake enough to drag himself out of the bedroom. No, no, you dont hafta. Mas followed Tug from the kitchen to the bathroom.
Honto,
really, Tug.
Tug had just retired from the County Health Department as a senior inspector at age seventy-two, and Mas knew he had keen eyes to spot the gathering place of bacteria and other deadly organisms. He would note the streaks of week-old toothpaste, sticky pools of hair and scum.
Tug had already made himself at home in the bathroom. His large body sagged on the edge of the bathtub as he opened his toolbox on Mass worn blue bath mat. He took out a large, grooved rubber ball, a new float ball for the toilet. Remember when we did this during the drought? I bet you still have the same equipment from back then.
Tug pulled off the ceramic lid to the tank and jangled the chain to the flush valve. Yep, sure looks like it. When we were here last week, I heard some water running. You dont want to be wasting any of that stuff; they say another droughts coming. Plus you dont want your bill to be sky-high not with our set incomes.
Not retired yet, Tug. Mas still felt dizzy, and leaned his elbow on the edge of the sink. He watched as Tug tinkered with the toilet bowl tank and then struggled to untangle a chain attached to a new flapper flush valve. The stub of his amputated forefinger stuck out like a frightened sea creature.
Finally Tug seemed to give up. Here, Mas, old man. Maybe youd have a better crack at this, he said, holding out the valve.
A lot of trouble, huh? The words came out before Mas could swallow them in his throat. He had never made mention to Tugs face of his war injury.
Well, after almost fifty years, you kind of get used to something thats missing. I can even type with it can even beat my grandson at computer games.
Tug spread out his huge left hand, accentuating the silhouette of his forefinger cut off at the knuckle. At work, if some restaurant was giving us some trouble, I would just make sure they saw my finger and make some reference to the gang. Bingo
yakuza,
theyd start thinking. That would keep them quiet. But little did they know that Japanese gangsters have the pinky cut off.
Tug wiggled his little finger, which was whole and complete with all its joints. But figurin I just lost half of a finger, and other guys lost much more than that, well, I guess I cant complain. Ive received a lot of blessings.
