He didnt expect Akemi and Yuki to understand. They stood on his porch, their bags in hand.
Im forever indebted to you,
Ojisan
. Yukis politeness embarrassed more than flattered Mas. He almost preferred dealing with the old Yuki.
I did nutin.
If you hadnt figured out the blood-type connection, we wouldnt have a chance to hold on to the land.
G. I., through some backdoor shenanigans, had been able to verify the blood type of the Joji Haneda who had died at Oxnard City Hospital. Type A, it was, just as Mas had predicted.
And I heard back from my buddy at the magazine, the one I had you call,
Ojisan
. I dont know why we didnt check sooner. But our land used to be next to this shantytown full of Koreans who had been forced to work in Hiroshima. Practically kidnapped and brought over.
People were using it as a landfill, and some attorneys for the former laborers want to conduct an investigation. Theres something down there. Evidence. Something worth a lot more than even ten million dollars.
Mas nodded. Hed read of the lawsuits filed on behalf of men and women who had been captured and forced to work in Japan during World War II a few years back. At the time, hed thought the lawsuits were pure foolishness. Just a way for lawyers to make a another buck, he figured. But if someone was hiring fellows like Nakane to nose around and even kill, it was certainly worth looking into.
Well, Akemi said, its up to us, isnt it? Well find out whats going on. She then turned to Mas. Masao-
san,
I wish you were coming with us to the airport. Tell me that we will see each other again.
Mas blinked hard two, three times. Oh, yah.
You come and visit us in the new, improved Hiroshima.
Of course, Mas lied, standing stiffly as Akemi gave him a brief hug.
Yuki knew enough not to touch Mas, and bowed instead. If theres anything I can do
Oh, yah, send me a copy of that drawing.
Drawing?
The one of the man with one leg.
Yuki unzipped his day pack and took out the illustration. Here, you can have this. Its a copy.
Wait. Mas went into the bedroom and returned to the front with another image. The black-and-white photograph of the boys on the bridge.
Whats this?
Joji Haneda. Your grandmothers brother. Mas pointed to the tall boy on the left-hand side. On his uniform was the white ID tag with a letter O faintly readable.
And the others?
Mas hesitated. Schoolmates. Friends.
Yuki didnt bother to ask where Mas had obtained the photo. He took the snapshot and placed the drawing in Mass hands. Yuki then bowed again, picked up the suitcases, and headed for the Jeep. When he reached the middle of the driveway, he turned around.
Ojisan,
Ill take you to a pachinko parlor or, better yet, boat racing. Well see how well youll do in that.
Orai, orai.
Mas waved from the porch and stood there until the Jeep disappeared from McNally Street. In the balmy sunshine, he studied the color drawing of the man without the leg. This is what Joji Haneda was trying to tell the world. That he wasnt Riki Kimura, type A, but Joji Haneda, O. The circle that he was trying to draw was his identity, a message that lasted more than fifty years. Mas was just happy that he was around to figure it out.
Mas was in the garage when Tug came by, five hours later. He seemed a little more subdued than usual, and Mas figured it had to do with the boys leaving. Tug gave a brief report about going to the airport, asked a few questions, said a few words, but pretty much revealed nothing. It wasnt like Tug. He wasnt the kind to hide his thoughts. He was direct and big, in body and spirit.
Mas made some comments about a new gadget they were selling at the local hardware store, but still little response. Mas expected Tug to show some interest, but he merely sagged on the Coleman cooler.
Youzu okay, Tug?
Tug took out a handkerchief and mopped up the sweat on his forehead. I had to get out of the house. Its Joy. Shes back home for a week.
Oh, yah. Must be nice for her, thought Mas, get a break from hospital work.
She and Lil have been at it the whole time. Shes thinking about quitting medicine, Mas. Shes done all the course work, internship, almost done with her residency, and now she says its not what she wants to do with the rest of her life.
Mas felt numb. Even though the Yamadas werent the type to
ibaru,
make a big deal of it, Mas knew that they were in fact very proud of Joy.
What she wanna do instead?
Paint. Tug kicked a piece of wire Mas had left on the garage floor. We should have never enrolled her in those Pasadena art classes.
Maybe she just feel dis way now. Temporary.
Its not just a phase, she says. How are you going to pay off your loans? I ask her. Those are going to have to be some damn good paintings.
Mas flinched. For Tug to curse, even say a word like damn, meant he had reached his limit.
Its not even the worst of it, Mas, Tug said. I wouldnt normally tell just anyone this, but I know youd keep this under wraps. Tug took a deep breath. She says that shes been in therapy, counseling. For a year now.
This counseling was an epidemic, thought Mas. Good thing Haruo wasnt around to talk about how great it was to dump your feelings onto a complete stranger.
She says that shes been trying to be a good Japanese girl her whole life, and she needs to break out of it. I dont get it, Mas. We tried to be good parents. I dont know where we went wrong. A bus paused at a stop down the street; the door folded open and then shut. It spilled exhaust as it left. I guess what hurts the most is that she didnt come to us with her problems. She didnt trust us. Now shes telling someone about how terrible we are as parents.
No, Tug, Mas interrupted. You and Lil are good parents. You take care of her, take her to church, tell her whats wrong, whats right. She a nice girl. Itsu just that we all got problems. May have nutin to do with mother, father. Some-times sometin happens, changes everytin.
Maybe, maybe. They remained quiet while Mas cleaned his tools. By the way, continued Tug, I wanted to ask you. Haruos not back gambling, is he?
Whatchu mean?
Well, I went to pick him up to go to the airport, and what do you know, he was running that incinerator in his backyard.
Mas balled up his cleaning rag.
He was smoking up that entire block. Neighborhood kids were in his driveway. They thought he was burning a body or something.
Howzu they get dat idea?
You know kids. So I was a bit worried. He put it out as soon as I came, but when he went back into the house to make sure he had turned off the stove, I checked.
And?
Tug pulled out a bill from his pocket. It was only about half a greenback, burned, yet still clearly showing Ben Franklins face.
Money.
Tug nodded. Now, I dont know what he was doing burning one-hundred-dollar bills. I didnt say anything, but wondered if you could talk to him. Youre his best friend, after all.
This time Mas didnt hesitate. No worry, Tug, he said. I take care. So it had been Haruo, thought Mas. He had been there that night after Yuki was arrested. Haruo was the king of second, third, and fourth chances. And now, by getting rid of Nakanes thirty-thousand-dollar bribe, he was trying to give a chance to Mas.
After a few more minutes, Tug rose to go home. Well, Mas, lifes going to be a lot quieter, huh? Whats next?
No idea, Mas said. No idea.
The house on McNally Street was especially quiet this evening. Mas picked up his usual routine a cold Budweiser, and the horse race broadcast. This is what he wanted, right? For the dust to resettle in the corners of his room.
Mas turned off the television set and sat at the kitchen table for a while, maybe a full hour. Crickets chirped, and children called out to one another on the street. Mas picked up the message that Akemi had apparently written to him a few days earlier. MARI CALLED, it said in capital letters.
It took Mas three tries. On the first attempt, he forgot to dial one before the number. On the second, he hung up before anyone could answer. On the third try, he let it ring and ring, until he heard her voice. It sounded so real that he began to talk, and then realized that it was only the answering machine.
Itsu Dad, he finally said, and before he could add anything else, a beep sounded, ending the message.
The next morning, Mas did what he had always done on Fridays for most of the past thirty years. He went to the Witts in San Marino.
As he eased Tugs pickup truck into the driveway, Mrs. Witt waved her hands from the back doorway as if she were directing a train to stop. Mas, I need to talk to you, she cried out. Mas noticed that her fingers were dark purple. Dying those T-shirts in her vats again, he noted. Ill wash up and meet you in the orchard, she said, her hands dripping purple.
Mas got out of the truck and opened the rear door. Tightening his grip on his wooden toolbox, he headed for the broken branches. Weeds and dandelions everywhere. Most of the trees had been chopped down, except about a half a dozen. And then, in the back row, he saw it. A branch that remained fused to its new home. Mas tripped over some extended roots and checked the connection. Fine. Fine. The leaves were waxy and bright green. He yanked a leaf to get a better look, and then, hidden by a bend in the branch, was a small persimmon the size of a babys fist.
They found it. Mrs. Witt was a bit breathless. She was wearing a white gauze top and loose blue shorts. Her hands were still purple, but dry now.
What? Mas released the leaf.
They found your truck. Mrs. Witt wiped some sweat with the back of her hand. Can you believe it? They just called me, about ten minutes ago. Good thing you gave them my number. Tried your place first, but couldnt get an answering machine. They want you to go in. Its the police in South Pasadena.
