He let go of the machine’s crank and stood up straight. “Nice,” he said. “Real nice.” Tug hesitated and then leaned down to the scope. He was cranking like a madman; he must have viewed the movie two times straight. Mas didn’t know what the short film meant, but somehow it made him feel happy. And on this trip, you had to grab at any kind of remnants of happiness.
The person behind them began to cough, and even Tug realized that his time was up. He removed his face from the viewer. The line had gotten longer, at least fifteen people deep, but Tug had to experience an encore and went toward the end of the line.
“I wait here,” Mas said, opting for another glass of wine by a display of a basketball covered with Barbie doll heads.
Tug was third in line when a familiar voice called out a few feet away: “Dad.” Surrounded by four women, Joy stood by the broken-arm X-ray light box. Circles of her two braids-one hot pink, the other blue-were pinned to the sides of her head. She wore a shimmering light-blue dress with a plunging neckline held together by a circular brooch.
“Hey, we match,” she said, laughing and pointing to her father’s light-blue suit, his tie, and even his round Optimist Club tiepin. Tug got out of line to talk to Joy, but then a group in black walked in between them. Taking another drink of his wine, Mas watched as Tug desperately tried to make his way to his daughter’s side.
When Mas walked into the apartment, his face hot and stoplight red from the successive glasses of alcohol, he was enveloped by a wonderful aroma from a pot boiling on the stove.
“Whatchu making?” he asked Mari, whose hands were stuffed in oven mitts.
“Corned beef and cabbage. Lloyd’s favorite.”
“No, that’s your favorite,” Lloyd said. Mas had to agree. Every St. Patrick’s Day, they had gone to the Japanese Catholic church just east of Little Tokyo to eat corned beef, cabbage, and sticky rice in Styrofoam bowls on plastic trays outside on tables covered with butcher paper. They had gone at the invitation of friends, but soon it was a tradition that Mari insisted on every year.
Chizuko also made her version throughout the winter, long, peeled carrots floating alongside a slab of red meat and cabbage. One year, Mari had gotten her tonsils removed, and seemed content eating her special diet of 7-Up and ice cream-that is, until she saw the steaming pot of her favorite food and burst into tears.
“Rememba after you got your tonsils out-”
“Oh, yeah.” Mari smiled, lifting the meat and vegetables with a pair of tongs. “I can’t believe you’d remember that. I was only about six years old.”
For a moment, Mas felt normal. The corned beef was tender, falling apart in his mouth without much effort of his dentures. They laughed, the noise and the scents filling the corners of the underground apartment. Takeo was safe in his crib, sleeping, hopefully not being terrorized by any nightmares.
After their early dinner, Lloyd insisted that Mari go to the gathering at the Teddy Bear Garden, the community garden trapped in an enclosed triangle.
“Get out of the house. Breathe in fresh air. It’s just a few blocks away.”
Mari was still wary about leaving Takeo, who was now awake and lying on a blanket on the floor. “Well, I’ll at least change his diaper before I go,” she said.
“No, Mari, I can handle it. You just go.”
“Izu help Lloyd,” Mas added.
Mas knew the drill now from babysitting Takeo. Fresh diaper-disposable paper ones with stickers, not cloth and safety pins like in Mari’s baby days. Take off the dirty diaper and clean oshiri. Lloyd pulled up Takeo’s legs and wiped his bare butt with a Wet One.
“ Ara- ” Mas pointed to the blue-black mark above Takeo’s behind. He hadn’t noticed that before.
“Yeah,” said Lloyd. “I guess he’s more Japanese than hakujin.”
The bald man, the night gardener, remembered Mas as he and Mari approached the gate of the Teddy Bear Garden. “Yes, the gardener from California,” the man said.
“My father,” explained Mari.
“I had no idea. Well, welcome to the family. Have something to eat, something to drink.”
They stood in line, holding small empty paper plates and napkins. Mari seemed to know most of the people, and Mas recognized a few of them from the blood drive at the hospital. They ate chocolate cake on a damp bench, and Mas could sense that Mari, her eyes darting back and forth at the crowd by the barbecue, wanted to make more conversation with her friends, yet stayed behind with him.
“You pack everything?” she asked.
“Yah.” There wasn’t much to pack. Lloyd had gone over to the Laundromat and washed Mas’s underwear, socks, jeans, and long-sleeved shirt. All that was rolled up and pushed into the hard plastic shell of the yellow Samsonite.
“Who’s going to pick you up from the airport?”
“Haruo.” Mas wasn’t looking forward to all the stories he would have to listen to on the hour’s drive back to Altadena.
“It’s good that Haruo’s there for you, Dad.”
“Um,” Mas grunted. He stacked Mari’s finished plate on top of his and made his way to the garbage can a few steps away. He passed a couple of women who didn’t look like the rest of the crowd. Instead of jeans and knit scarves, they wore pressed slacks and gold jewelry.
“Who’s that?” he heard one woman ask the other.
“Oh, he’s connected with the Waxley House. He’s their little Takeo Shiota,” one of the women said.
Mas bared his top dentures. He wanted to snap at the women, but he would never dare to do so. He turned toward the bench, and there was Mari, her head tilted back, a small green sycamore leaf in her hands. Her mouth was wide-open, the short staccato of laughter starting to ring from her throat. It sounded somewhat familiar to Mas, yet different, like an old tune that was made new again.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
NAOMI HIRAHARA is the author of Summer of the Big Bachi, the first book in the Mas Arai mystery series. A writer, editor, and publisher of nonfiction books, she previously worked as an editor of The Rafu Shimpo, a bilingual Japanese American daily newspaper in Los Angeles. She and her husband reside in her birthplace, Southern California. For more information and reading group guides, visit her Web site at www.naomihirahara.com.
