“I’m kind of worn-out, Mari,” Tug said. “How about tomorrow?”
“This can’t wait.” Mari was driven to find the answer. “How about you, Dad? Ready for a bus ride?”
Mas had taken the bus a few times before in Los Angeles, but that was when it had been known as the RTD, not all the fancy names it was called today. Now in Southern California there were bright-red buses called Rapid; small buses, which just circled downtown L.A.; and sky-blue buses, which traveled all the way to Santa Monica, just blocks away from the Pacific Ocean. Even Pasadena had a free bus line, with vehicles elaborately painted with images of jazz singers to prove that the city had some culture. It was as if you needed to trick people to ride the bus.
Mari claimed that the New Jersey Transit was the fastest way to travel to Fort Lee, New Jersey, from Manhattan. Fort Lee sounded like an old military unit, a fortress made of wooden logs and manned by soldiers wearing moccasins and carrying rifles.
They took the underground train to the Port Authority Terminal on Forty-second Street, and from there a bus. The bus looped south and then traveled north, passing the bare gray trees of Central Park and the tall, high-tone apartments on the west side of the avenue. The sun was going down, but instead of the spectacular sunsets of smog-tainted Los Angeles, the grayness just got darker, like a shade being pulled down.
Several blocks later, the scene changed to dilapidated houses and a starkness that stripped Mas’s heart.
“ Columbia ’s not far from here,” Mari said.
Mas felt his mouth go dry. So they had spent thousands of dollars on a university in this neighborhood? “So youzu still like New York,” Mas stated more than questioned.
“Can’t go back to California. I know that the weather’s so much better. But we’ve become New Yorkers. And besides, we couldn’t afford any place in Los Angeles, either.”
You could live with me, Mas impulsively thought, and then took back his silent offer. What kind of baka idea was that? He was fine by himself, letting dust settle on his furniture and bowling trophies. Keeping his refrigerator stocked with just necessities: Budweiser, jalapeño peppers, hot dogs, eggs, ketchup, and kimchee. With Mari’s family there would be soy milk, tofu hot dogs, yogurt, cantaloupe, apples, strained spinach, and carrots. He would have to put away all his fishing hooks and lines, and smooth circular go game pieces, which could get lodged in a baby’s throat.
The bus passed over a massive bridge, woven bars of the metal laced together to hold the weight of fifty-ton trucks. This was nothing like the wimpy two-lane “suicide” bridge in Pasadena, held up by delicate arches. The Pasadena bridge was a favorite in cheap movies and television shows, but had no other real purpose, except for once serving as the diving board of the brokenhearted beaten down by the Depression in the thirties.
Finally they were dropped off at an open plaza boasting a concrete monument, as big as a celebrity’s headstone, with the message WELCOME TO FORT LEE.
Mari opened up her map. “Anna Grady’s apartment is not far from here. You up for walking half a mile, Dad?” They passed a quaint business district with outdoor cafés, more streets, and then came upon a tall high-rise.
“This is it,” Mari said.
While Waxley Enterprises had a receptionist with a striped bow, the high-rise had a full-fledged security guard wearing a uniform and even a holster fastened around his bloated belly.
Mari licked her lips and went to the counter with a sense of purpose. “Hello,” she said. “We’re here to visit Anna Grady.”
The security guard had them sign a piece of paper fastened to a clipboard. He then picked up a phone and mumbled something into the receiver. “Who are you?” he asked, not bothering to consult his clipboard.
“Mari Jensen and Mas Arai,” said Mari. “We’re friends of Ms. Grady.”
Mas held his hands awkwardly at his sides. He was ready to get kicked out, and instead the security guard nodded his head. “Take those elevators. Seventeenth floor.”
Mas was amazed at how they could get clearance so easily. They didn’t even know what Anna Grady looked like.
“Can’t seem scared, Dad. Have to act like you belong.” That was easy for Mari to say. She had a college degree worth thousands of dollars from a fancy university. Even though she was small, she walked like a person twice her size, as if she dared anyone to question her right to be anywhere.
The elevators opened to a long hallway and a line of doors. Which door? It was as bad as a game of roulette. Some guys claimed they had a system to win, but Mas knew it was just a guessing game. Before they had a chance to try their hand, a door opened on the right-hand side. A Japanese American woman of around seventy stood in jeans, sweatshirt, and slippers. Her graying hair was neatly arranged in a chawan -style cut, shaped as if the barber had put a giant rice bowl on top of her head. Mas thought that hairdo had gone out of style in the seventies. “So you are friends of Anna?” the woman asked.
“Yes, I’m Mari, and this is my father, Mas.”
The two of them made quite a pair, Mas then realized. Both just a little above five feet tall, who would think that they were flat-out liars?
The chawan -cut woman, who introduced herself as Seiko Sumi, Anna’s roommate, gestured for them to come in. The apartment was airy; a sliding-glass door in the living room opened out to a balcony crowded with ferns and other houseplants.
“Anna was resting, but she’ll be out in a moment. She’s had a difficult day. A close friend of ours passed away, and we went to the memorial service this afternoon.”
Mas stared at Mari, but she instead was focused entirely on Seiko.
“Sit down, sit down.” She gestured to the couch. As Mas and Mari complied, Seiko began to ask, “Now, how do you-” Mas cringed as he prepared to hear the dreaded question.
“You have a lovely apartment,” interrupted Mari, leaping to her feet.
Mas took a quick look at the living room. Reminded him of any other Nisei house. Some Japanese sumi-e paintings of jagged mountains. A Japanese doll wearing a bright kimono in a glass box. A couple of papier-mâché tigers. Somebody there was obviously born in the Year of the Tiger. Mas followed Mari as she examined a special glass case in the corner. It looked like some kind of mini historic display with an old nursing uniform, old books, and a badge that read Seabrook Farms. Mas faintly remembered a gardener mentioning that he had worked back East on Seabrook Farms during World War II.
“Seabrook Farms,” Mari said. “I was the videographer for the fiftieth-anniversary reunion event.”
“Oh, really? My mother was in Seabrook-she worked in the infirmary. She died some years ago, but I know that she would have loved to go to the reunion. Quite an event, I heard.”
Mari nodded. “Five hundred people. They have a museum, you know.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve even donated some of my mother’s belongings to them.” The chawan -cut woman paused, her eyes darting from Mas to Mari. “Well, you know Anna was there in Seabrook, right? My mother got to know her when Anna was in the infirmary, recuperating from chicken pox. Newcomers aren’t exposed to the same diseases as we are.”
“Ah, of course-” Mari stumbled on her words.
Seiko’s eyes thinned. “How do you know Anna again?”
Mari seemed to know that they couldn’t keep playing this game. “I really don’t know Anna,” she admitted. “I’m really sorry to have deceived you. My husband actually has met her. He worked on Kazzy’s new garden.”
Seiko’s mind seemed to be percolating. “But you weren’t at the memorial service.”