Before Mas left Watsonville for Los Angeles in 1950, Shug came down to Sacramento to say goodbye.
“We’ve had some good times over here, haven’t we?”
Mas didn’t know what to say. After Shug left for college, he had rarely heard from him. Yes, Shug had invited him and Oily early on, but it seemed to be just to participate in some kind of scientific study. Shug never told them what had happened with the blood and tissue he’d collected.
The last time Mas spoke to him, Shug had asked his opinion about Minnie.
“Sheezu nice girl,” Mas said. Minnie was indeed pleasant, a ready smile on her face. She had stayed in Watsonville and was taking teaching classes at the local junior college.
“Evelyn is sure ready to get married,” Shug said.
“Good for her,” Mas answered. And he meant it. He just didn’t want to be the fish caught in her net. He figured his move to Southern California would put an end to her advances.
“What are you planning to do in Los Angeles?”
“Gardenin’.”
“A lot of Nisei are getting into that in the big cities. You’ll do well.”
Mas swallowed and nodded. But nothing like how well you will be doing, he thought. Shug was smart and was on his way to getting a degree from UC Davis. They were on two different tracks, headed for separate futures.
“We’ll stay in touch,” Shug said.
And they did. Christmas cards, purchased at holiday sales a day after the previous Christmas. Minnie signed for “The Arais.” And Chizuko signed theirs.
Aside from seeing each other at the occasional funeral, that had been the extent of their intimacy over the past forty years. So Mas had been puzzled, of course, about why Shug would immortalize him with his groundbreaking strawberry, the Masao. But now it was becoming clearer.
Mas attempted to reach her over the phone, but she hung up the second she heard his voice. So he had to make a face-to-face visit instead. The neighborhood was familiar, an old one, just a block past the Buddhist temple. The home was a simple one-story wood-framed house that couldn’t be much larger than eight hundred square feet.
The tiny house had many windows, at least two on every side. Even the door had a glass panel. And today each of the windows was covered, with shades drawn tightly. Mas rapped his knuckles on the door.
The curtains on the door pulled back, revealing fingers wrapped around a shotgun. Rosa’s voice was surprisingly clear through the glass. “I have a license for this. And I know how to use it.”
Mas took a few steps away from the door and turned back toward the walkway. Then came the jangle of a chain being slid back and the popping open of the door.
“Wait,” she commanded. Mas complied.
“Nobody seen youzu at Sugarberry,” Mas spoke with his back turned to Rosa.
“I bet everyone’s relieved about that.”
“Whyzu you been away?”
Now was not the time for her to be moku-moku, quiet.
Mas turned around to look at Rosa, face-to-face. She was wearing a black cotton shirt and cargo pants. She looked as if she hadn’t slept all night. “You knowsu about the new strawberry.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You knowsu. I knowsu.”
Still cradling the shotgun, Rosa gestured toward her house. “Get in,” she said, “before I change my mind.”
With thick curtains over the windows and no light, the house was as dark as the mood of its inhabitant. Rosa started pacing, causing the wooden floorboards to squeak. “How can you know about the Masao? You’re still standing. Alive. Laila’s dead. Her friend who analyzed the Masao is scared to death.”
Mas frowned.
Rosa stopped pacing. “Yeah, yeah. She’s been getting death threats, anonymous ones, but we know who they’re from. And now he’s threatening to hurt Cecilia if I open my mouth. He keeps saying that this is going to save the strawberry industry, that it’s going to help a lot of people, but he’s not thinking about the people who’ll be buying and eating the Masao. He’s crazy. He’s nuts. And that’s why I’m afraid he might follow through with his threats.”
Rosa stopped to listen to the sounds of children playing in the street for a minute. “Anyway, I don’t know how he found out about me in the first place. Did you say anything to anyone about me contacting the lab?”
“No, no don’t say nuttin’,” Mas quickly replied, not sure if he had or not.
“Youzu sure he killed Laila?” he asked.
“Who else would have?”
Mas went to where he last saw Shug alone, at least when his friend was dead. The mortuary was hushed, a few loose dead leaves falling onto the walkway. He spotted a few dandelions in corners of the lawn. Weeds seemed to be the only new things alive at the mortuary today.
The front door opened easily. No one was in the front room, but a tall dark-haired woman appeared from the back. “Can I help you?” She had an easy voice, a voice that a man could tell his problems to.
“I’zu Shug Arai’s relative,” he introduced himself.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I believe I recognize you from the visitation. You came early that day.”
Mas was shocked that the woman would have remembered him. With a bunch of Nisei men about the same height and weight, it took a pretty discerning hakujin woman to tell them apart.
“I’zu just have question for you.”
“Of course.” The woman was eager to please, so Mas continued.
“Baseball bat, there’su one dat was in the casket.”
“Yes, yes, I already spoke to the detective about that. . . .”
“Robin Arai?”
“No, no, Sergeant Salgado. From the Watsonville Police. Like I told him, I have no idea who put that bat in the casket. I just assumed it was a member of the family; I mean, no one asked me about it at the time.”
“Not there on Friday.”
The woman nodded, blinking rapidly. “Yes, I don’t remember it being placed on the visitation day, either. It must have been the day of the funeral. I was here early, around seven-thirty, on that Saturday to prepare for another funeral. I didn’t notice anyone come in. We don’t have a problem with theft in this place, as you can well imagine. I mean, it’s quite conceivable that a loved one came in and left the memento in the casket. People do strange things when they’re in mourning.” The woman fingered a stray piece of hair and pulled it back behind her ear. “Was the bat valuable? Is that why so many people are interested in it?”
Mas didn’t answer and looked out the window. More leaves were falling from the ash tree. “You’zu tree is a bit sick,” he told her. “When the gardener come around?”
“On Saturday mornings,” she said.
“Can I getsu his phone numba?” Mas said. “I can maybe tellsu him what to do.”
One thing about an Impala, you could drive a lot faster in it than in a 1956 Ford truck that was literally duct-taped together. Mas leaned into the curves of the road, not caring if the Highway Patrol noticed that he was going twenty miles over the speed limit. Let them come. Let them all come to Castroville.
Linus’s truck was parked by his mural-covered trailer, but Mas didn’t care. He headed straight for the fields, for the experimental crops that were behind a ten-foot-high barbed-wire fence. The entryway was locked—if only Mas had his Ford, filled with his tools, he would have had an easier way in. The Impala’s trunk only revealed a dirty blanket, empty water bottles, a tire iron, a baseball, and a spare tire—nothing that could do any damage to the barbed-wire fence. Mas examined the lock on Linus’s garage—that one also required a good pair of bolt cutters.
The Impala was shiny and freshly washed—he hated to do this, but he felt he had no other choice. Sitting in the vinyl driver’s seat, he moved the car so it faced the fence. Pulling the hand brake, he floored the gas pedal and then released the brake handle. The Impala lurched forward, the nose of the car crashing down the fence.
Next came the picking. He bent down toward the strawberry plants, his back remembering the same movement from decades ago. But instead of gently plucking each red jewel of fruit to place in a crate, Mas began tearing at the plants, pulling them from their roots and stomping on the fruit. He repeated this, dumping tangled vines in a pile.
He was destroying the third row of plants when Linus came out in his sarong, carrying a lawn chair and umbrella. He set up a shady seat a few yards from the uprooted fence and watched, sipping something exotic from a dark bottle.
Sweat washed down from Mas’s forehead, and he stopped for a moment to wipe the wetness away with his shirt sleeve.
“Would you like some kind of refreshment after all that work?” Linus finally called out.
Mas actually would have, but he would have never accepted a drink from Linus Verdorben.
“Thank you for picking these strawberries.” Linus rose from his seat and gingerly stepped on the downed chain-link fence in his sandals. He walked to the pile of plants and tugged at a strawberry that Mas had missed, popping it into his mouth.
“Tasty. Sweet as can be.”
Hearing that syrupy comment, Mas almost gagged.
“The sweetness is compliments of the berry created by Jimi Jabami’s and Shug’s fathers. They called it the Taro after some folktale. Quaint, huh? I believe it’s called Mimi-taro or something like that.”
Momo-taro, you bakatare, Mas silently corrected.
“Anyway, the Taro was slow to produce. Shug still thought he could do something with them. He saw their potential.”
Linus chewed slowly as he spoke, as if he were savoring each bite. “And then, lo and behold, we were experimenting with crossing the plant with other varieties. And then one night—I have to admit Jack Daniels was involved—Shug had a wild idea.”
Mas felt light-headed, as if he were close to fainting.
“Your cells were very interesting. We’ve been watching them over the years. While samples from others just sat there, yours exploded. Yours grow in double, triple the time. We considered the fact that you were exposed to heavy doses of radiation during the atomic bombing. Perhaps more radiation means more reproduction. That got Shug wondering—what if we could combine this power of reproduction with the sweetness of the Taro?”
Something began to stir in Masao. Shock turned into anger, not only toward Linus, but also toward Shug. How could Shug, who had known him from age eighteen, betray him like this?
“It wasn’t instantaneous. It took several tries and, of course, multiple generations. Maybe even thirty. Some earlier varieties were even grown at the Stem House. With each generation, the berry got firmer. And then the perfect one was born this year. Right here. The Masao. Beautiful fruit, fast reproduction, long shelf life. And get this—now we find out that the Masao is resistant to disease, fights off strawberry yellows, can you believe it?”
Mas couldn’t stand it any longer. “You’zu can’t do dis. Neva gave permission for sumptin like dis.”
“Well, you gave your cells a long time ago. Before we started having any kind of protocols. And yes, they are your cells. The DNA from your toothbrush proves it.”
The missing toothbrush. It hadn’t been lost in the hubbub of the break-in; it was the purpose of the break-in.
Mas was desperate for anything that might stop Linus. He gestured toward the destroyed plants. “All your Masaos gone now.”
Linus laughed. “You’re a gardener yourself, aren’t you, Mas? Then you know that strawberries go back to their mothers. And these, my friend, are just the daughters, not the mothers. The mothers are safe and sound.”
“I tellsu everyone. I tellsu them that I’zu the Masao.”
“No, you won’t. I’ve been studying you, Mas. You’re a private man. A quiet man. Once the Masao comes out and you come forward, saying that your cells are in the strawberry, do you know what’s going to happen?”
You’ll be ruined, thought Mas.
“The tabloid reporters will be camped out in front of your house in Altadena. There will be TV media from all around the world wanting to interview the man who was turned into a strawberry.”
Mas tried not to fall over. What Linus was saying was true. He could imagine Mari and his grandson struggling to get through a crowd of reporters, the photographs, the video cameras. How could he let that happen to himself, his family? He knew that he was completely outplayed, beaten.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have a big day tomorrow. Shug was supposed to be the one making the presentation at the strawberry commission meeting tomorrow. With him gone, I’ll have to introduce the Masao to the world.”