I didn’t wake you, did I?” It was Genessee’s voice, warm and cozy, in his ear.
Mas straightened the telephone receiver. “No,” he lied. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but based on the dim light hitting his crooked blinds, it must not yet be six o’clock in the morning.
“How was the baseball game?”
Mas could have told Genessee all about Itai, but there was no reason to worry her.
“Orai,” Mas said.
“Just checking if you can still pick me up tonight. I know it’s late. I can ask my son—”
“No, I come, no trouble,” Mas lied again.
Even with the Steve McQueen glasses, Mas’s eyes weren’t what they used to be. Going to LAX in the middle of the night wasn’t his idea of a good time. But at least it should be late enough for traffic to have eased and maybe early enough for the drunkards to still be inside drinking.
“Howsu convention?”
“It’s amazing. Some professors are here from Okinawa, and they brought musical instruments—some of them are a hundred years old.” As Genessee prattled on, energized by her adventures, Mas couldn’t help but let his mind wander. The terrible death of Itai hadn’t been a dream. Did the police have more information on the cause of his demise?
“So what are your plans for today?” That was Genessee’s favorite question. She was into planning because she was fully in charge of her life, while Mas instead often let life happen to him. But he did have one plan.
“Helping Tug fix his washer. Haruo comin’ along, too.”
“Well, you know, there are professionals for those things.”
Mas chose to ignore her comment. To call any of them amateurs was beyond insulting.
“Gotsu go. Bye-bye.”
“Bye, Mas.” Genessee hesitated, and he worried that she’d add something to her farewell. Before she could, he hung up.
“Missed you last night, Mas,” Haruo said as Mas walked through Tug’s open garage. As he aged, Haruo’s scar on the left side of his face seemed to lose its elasticity. It lay on his face like something foreign, like the surface of a rubber chicken.
Haruo had been a repeat married man for some time now. More than five years. This was his second go-round, and this union seemed to suit him. While his ex-wife, Yasuko, was sharp edged, Spoon was, both physically and emotionally, softer. The two wives were both Japanese, but Yasuko was born in Japan, while Spoon was a Nisei who had spent her teen years in camp during World War II. She had low expectations of America and apparently of family as well. Certainly good ingredients for a successful marriage with Haruo.
“Youzu have a good time?” Mas asked, which he knew was a ridiculous question the minute he said it. With Haruo, life was always good, even if he was mere steps from calamity.
“Grand slam, Mas! Too bad you miss it. Hey, the ball almost go outta the park.”
“I’ve only seen seven of those in my whole life,” Tug added. “It was a beautiful thing.” Tug and his son were the types to bring blank scorecards and record the stats of who pitched, who hit, and who made errors.
“Sorry to hear about dead guy,” Haruo said. “Youzu hear anytin’ new?”
Mas shook his head, not making eye contact. Haruo instantly understood that the conversation was closed.
They worked silently, methodically.
Mas had the best hands for the job. Tug’s were too meaty—plus, he was missing part of his forefinger. Haruo had only one good eye, and that eye wasn’t even so good anymore. Luckily Tug’s washer was at least ten years old and basic—no fancy electronic equipment to dismantle. Just a lot of tiny screws, which Tug was in charge of keeping track of, which he did with snack-size plastic bags and Post-Its. Finally, with the turn of a nut screw, they were able to get the washer bucket loose and clean out the strings of fabric that had gotten caught in it.
About two hours into their work, Lil came out with a tray of cold barley tea and homemade cookies. She’d had hip replacement surgery a few years back and now apparently had a new lease on life. Even her face, despite the lines around the eyes and neck, seemed younger and more alert.
“You all deserve a break,” she said, setting the tray down on an old metal trunk—maybe even Tug’s old footlocker from fighting in Europe in World War II. “I told Tug that we could call the handyman, but he insisted in doing it himself. Which, of course, included you two.”
They didn’t waste any time in glugging down the tea but practiced more restraint when it came to the cookies.
“How’s Genessee? Haven’t seen her in a while.” Lil, who was obviously delighted that Mas had a “lady friend,” always kept tabs to see if she was still in the picture.
“Sheezu in San Francisco. For a conference with other erai people,” Haruo piped up. Erai meant smart, which obviously didn’t include Mas.
“Comin’ home tonight.” Mas finished the last sip of tea and finally grabbed a cookie after Tug helped himself to one. “Sah, back to work?”
They silently resumed their positions. They secured the washer tub and put the whole basket back into its frame. They were on their fifth screw when Haruo reluctantly excused himself. His wife, Spoon, had retired their flower business, but Dee had started a wholesale business in Hawaiian tropical flowers, specializing in leis for special occasions like graduations and anniversaries. There was a golden anniversary that night, and Haruo had agreed to do the delivery to El Monte.
That left Mas alone with Tug, which was just as well. Tug didn’t talk as much as Haruo, which made the reassembly go faster. After they’d fastened the last screw, Mas sat back in one of the Yamadas’ lawn chairs while Tug wiped the sweat off of his forehead with an old towel.
“We may be going to Toronto next week,” Tug announced. “Or we may not.”
Mas looked up, curious. Usually the Yamadas planned their international trips months in advance.
Tug’s voice became thin and deliberate. “You see, Joy’s getting married.”
“Toronto, thatsu Canada, desho? Who wiz?” Last Mas heard, Joy had a lady friend of her own, a Latina whose roots were in Puerto Rico. Her name was a flower, Mas thought he remembered.
“Iris. Didn’t you meet her last Christmas?”
Mas nodded. He didn’t know what to say. He knew that Tug and Lil were stalwart members of Sunrise Baptist Church in Little Tokyo. He had no idea about the church’s position on same-sex marriage, but he figured it wasn’t too open.
“Thatsu good,” Mas said, more in the tone of a question than a statement. “Omedetou,” he offered his congratulations in Japanese.
“Lil’s not taking it well, as you can imagine. I guess she dreamed that her little girl would be going down the aisle in a white dress, even though that little girl is now in her mid-forties.”
“No white dress in those kinds of weddings?”
“No, it’s not that. I’m not even sure what they’ll be wearing. But I guess Lil also thought the groom would be a nice young man in a tuxedo, not a woman with a snake tattoo on her arm.”
Mas nodded. Yes, he remembered the tattoo now. He spotted it when she was sitting at the Yamadas’ dinner table, Iris’s arm loosely dangling from the back of Joy’s chair. Life, especially when it came to children, was full of surprises. If you told Mas back in 1999 that his daughter and her family would be living with him in ten years, he’d have laughed in your face.
But this was not a laughing matter for Tug. There were his faith and family to consider. This wedding, Mas assumed, was putting both to the test.
“Lil feels that if we attend, we approve. But if we don’t go, I don’t think Joy will ever talk to us again.”
Mas didn’t know what to say. Even though he had Mari, he was no expert on father-daughter relationships, except maybe on the things you should avoid. And as for religion, that wasn’t something he was familiar with, although he did occasionally accompany Genessee to church—ironically, sometimes after his sleepovers. The last time, the minister talked about judging other people, how you shouldn’t do it. Something about needing to take a three-by-five out of your eye. Such talk mystified Mas. How could you even put something that large in your eye in the first place?
“Sumptin about love. You Christians talk a lot about it. And forgive, too.”
It was now time for Tug to chuckle. “Yes, two of the biggest proponents of our religion.” His face then became more serious. “But it’s hard to know how to love. It’s not easy.”
That Mas could agree with. And that was why he didn’t like how the hakujin threw around the “love” word so much. They loved this movie, they loved this car, they loved this flower. The word had become so weak that it failed to spark any real emotion.
The conversation had taken such a serious tone that Mas scrambled to find something else to talk about. He spied the program from last night’s baseball game on Tug’s work bench and flipped to the dog-eared page with photos of all the players.
Mas hadn’t seen the program, and it fascinated him to see the head shots of the players. The yellow-haired one was named Kii Tanji, and he played for the Yomiuri Giants in Tokyo. The young hapa pitcher was Soji Zahed—what kind of name was Zahed? Sounded Arabian to Mas. The catcher, Sawada, was with the Colorado Rockies, but Mas wasn’t that familiar with him.
Tug pointed at yellow head, Tanji. “This one was actually very impressive,” he said. “He’s the second baseman. A journeyman player. I think he’s in his late thirties. Helped make a double play. Got a man out at second and then threw the ball perfectly to home.”
“But not good enough for majors.” Mas remembered Tanji’s altercation with the pitcher, Zahed.
“I guess it’s all about timing.”
Mas agreed. Just like Uno-san—the stars had aligned regarding the timing of his free agency, which made it possible to come to America. He mentioned that to Tug, who nodded. “He was spectacular yesterday, wasn’t he? Oh, you missed his home run.”
“But I see him on the field. Maybe two feet away.”
“You did? Did you talk to him?” Before Mas could respond, Tug withdrew his question. “No, of course not. He probably was in the zone.”
Mas rose to his feet. It was late, almost dinnertime. The washer was restored, and there was no reason to stay any longer.
When Mas pulled the Impala into the driveway, Mari, much like she did when she was a child, was looking at him through the screen door. She pushed it open as he walked up, and the words rushed out. “I’m glad you’re here. We’ve been calling you on your cell, Dad. You should carry it with you.”
Mas frowned. What was this all about? “I carry,” he said, digging it out from the corner of his pocket.
Mari flipped it open. “But it needs to be on. Never mind that right now. You have a visitor. From Hiroshima.”
The first people who came to mind were his siblings, at least the couple that were still alive. And then—no, it couldn’t be. Akemi? Mas blushed in embarrassment for what he was thinking. He wasn’t a married man, but he was the next closest thing to it.
Mari had to almost push him into the living room. Mas’s eyes, through his glasses, had to adjust to the light. Instead of an old Japanese woman sitting on his couch, there was a young Japanese man, also wearing glasses, but his were thick black-rimmed ones.
Mas had no idea who this person was. The man quickly got to his feet and began to speak in Japanese. “Arai-san, it’s me, Kimura Yukikazu. Yuki. I’m Akemi’s grandson. My magazine sent me here to replace Itai-san.”
“He said he knows you, Dad.” Mari came to Mas’s side. “That he even stayed here before, ten years ago.”
Yuki nodded. “Yes, yes,” he said in halting English. “My grandmother and I sleep here. Then the police come and arrest me.”
“What?!”
Takeo, his head wet presumingly from a bath, entered the living room. “Who’s that, Mom?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Mas noticed a backpack next to the couch. Oh no, he wasn’t thinking of staying here, was he?
“Dis my daughta, Mari,” Mas kept speaking in English for all to understand. “Grandson, Takeo.”
Yuki gestured with his right hand toward Mari. “You the one never call. No contact with Mista Arai back then, ten years ago?”
Mari’s mouth fell open. “Dad, who is this guy?”
“Sorry, my name Yukikazu Kimura,” he repeated. “Or Yuki. Reporter with Nippon Series.” He fished out a business card from the inside of his blazer and presented it to Mari with two hands, as was customary.
“I don’t have a card. I didn’t think it was necessary…in my own house.”
Chotto matte, Mas thought. This is my house. But that technicality aside, he was faced with a more pressing matter. “I thought you work for Shine.”
Yuki switched over to Japanese. “Oh, that went out of business after a couple of years. Nippon Series is a respectable publication. It’s been around for twenty-five years.”
Oh, yah, a lifetime, Mas thought. Maybe your lifetime. He took the conversation back to English. “Whatchu doin’ here? Youzu probably want to stay in Little Tokyo. I can take you ova.” Right before I pick up Genessee from the airport.
“I have job for Arai-san.”
“A job?” Mari’s fists were on her hips.
“I need driver. And translator.”
“You realize that my father is almost eighty years old, right? And his English skills aren’t the best.”
“I need man I can trust,” Yuki said emphatically. “I read and understand much English, but speaking, not so good.”
Somehow those words softened both Mas and Mari. What a magician Yuki had become, Mas thought.
“How much?” Mas asked.
“No, Dad—”
“How much do you charge?” Yuki threw that question back to Mas in Japanese.
“Hundred a day.” That’s how much he charged during the heyday of his gardening route. The coins and bills in the Yuban coffee can in his closet were getting low due to the new residents at the house.
“Hundred. Okay. I’zu here a week.”
Mas extended his hand. “Orai. Deal.”
“I don’t know about this—” Mari was still skeptical.
“Dis my life. My bizness.”
Mas directed the boy out the door and into the driveway, where his Impala was parked. Mari moved her hybrid Honda out of the way, while Takeo, barefoot and hair still damp, waited on the porch.
“Hey, what happened to your truck? Finally broke down?” Yuki spoke in Japanese as he put his backpack in the trunk. “Actually, this car is pretty old, too.”
Mas didn’t like to tell the story of how he’d lost the truck, so he did what he usually did. Ignored the question.
Before they left the driveway, Mari flagged down Mas, causing him to roll down the window. “What time will you be home?”
“Late.” She didn’t need to know about his midnight drive to the airport. In that way, she was like her mother. Always weighed down by shinpai. Worry, Mas found, was like cockroaches. Worries only led to more worries.
Yuki said he was registered at one of the hotels in Little Tokyo. Mas was familiar with it. The boy had come a long way from what he had been.
“So you’re a real reporter,” Mas said in Japanese.
“Yes, a real one. You seem surprised.”
“You know I was there. When that Itai died on the field.”
Yuki squirmed in his seat. Mas knew this was no coincidence. “I saw your photo in some of the digital prints our freelancer sent us,” he finally admitted. “Akemi had mentioned that you had a son-in-law who works for the Dodgers.”
Mas changed back to English. It seemed safer that way. He needed some kind of barrier to separate himself from the reporter. “So youzu don’t need me to drive youzu around.”
“No, I do need you,” said Yuki, staying in Japanese. “I never got my license in Japan. I work now in Tokyo. I need a person I can depend on, who knows his way around Los Angeles.”
Mas frowned. What was the big deal? “Dis baseball story, desho? How come such mystery?”
“You don’t know, do you?” Yuki said. “I’m not here for the World Championship. I’m here to investigate what happened to Itai-san. He didn’t die from natural causes, Arai-san. I mean, he had high blood pressure, but he took medicine for that.”
Mas almost lost control of the steering wheel.
“He’s always received death threats. He was that kind of journalist. I guess this time someone made good on it.”
“How about you?”
Yuki was quiet. “Had my share, too.”
Mas shivered. Here he was, the driver for a man who might be targeted. He’d already been in a car accident that had threatened his life. He didn’t need to be in another one.
“By the way, Akemi says hello,” Yuki said.
“Oh, yah.”
“She’s still single. All by herself in Hiroshima.”
“Sure she likesu dat way.”
“I’m not so sure.”
Mas didn’t know why he was feeling guilty. There was absolutely nothing between him and Akemi. And if there was, that was before World War II, when he was just a boy.
“So see you tomorrow? You can come up to my room. I’m in 302.”
Mas had to admit that a part of him appreciated being needed. When did anyone say that he or she needed Mas Arai, and only Mas?
Of course, Yuki was not the only person who needed him today. Mas got on the 110 and took a straight shot to the 105, a newborn-baby freeway in comparison. The 105 took him directly to LAX and at that time of night, the drive was thankfully fast.
He’d made sure to turn on his clamshell phone this time, and it chirped cheerfully—a sign that Genessee had indeed arrived. And there she was on the curb, the familiar silhouette of her thin frame and the halo of her short-cropped Afro.
She pushed her suitcase in the back before settling in the passenger seat. “Thanks for picking me up,” she said. “So, did anything happen while I was away?”