Shug wouldn’t have done that to you, Mas. He wouldn’t do that to any human being,” Minnie said after Mas explained about the genesis of the Masao.
“No, no, he do it.” Mas now remembered going into the Davis laboratory. It was small, with linoleum floors and wooden cabinets. Linus was taking a blood sample from Oily. “Oooowwww,” Oily exclaimed. “That hurts.” A hundred-and-seventy-pound baby.
With Mas, it was a little different. Shug was almost excited to see the raised mole by Mas’s elbow. “I just want to take a specimen of this. It won’t hurt much, I promise.” Shug rubbed something yellowish-red on the mole—it almost started to tingle—then picked up a scalpel, as sharp and menacing as a barbershop razor.
“You’zu know what you’zu doin’?” Mas asked.
“I’ve been doing this all semester, Mas. No worries.” His glasses were a little askew, and his right eye looked slightly magnified.
“Look away, Mas,” Oily said, a bandage around his bicep.
And there, the bump was sliced away and placed in a clear container.
“He do it. He do it,” Mas insisted.
“I don’t believe it.”
Then why? Why the Masao? Why was this bakatare strawberry named after him?
Minnie refused to believe what Shug did and excused herself. “I need to lie down for a while,” she said.
Well, what about me, Mas thought. He couldn’t stay under Shug’s roof one minute longer. He didn’t feel right wearing Shug’s clothes anymore, so he opted for his only available outfit, the funeral suit and hard shoes. Before leaving the neighorhood, he made one phone call and placed a check for the Impala in the mail slot of the Duran house.
He would check back into the motel, but before that, he needed to make a stop in a familiar old neighborhood not far from the cemetery where the pioneers of Watsonville were buried.
The gardener only had a few tools in his bare bones old pickup truck, parked underneath an oak tree: a Makita lawnmower circa 1990 (should be secured down with a locked chain, thought Mas), a worn-out rake, and an old-fashioned edger. This gardener was definitely a rookie, a one-man show. And he couldn’t speak a lick of English—well, maybe he could manage at least one lick. His son had warned Mas as much over the phone; this was after revealing that the gardener could be found at this duplex not far from Rosa’s house.
“Hallo,” Mas greeted the gardener, who glared suspiciously at Mas’s suit and vehicle.
Mas had written down the address of the mortuary on the back of a business card in his wallet, and now he showed it to the gardener, who last name was Ramirez.
Ramirez squinted at the address. “Ya, my customa.”
Mas wrote down the date of the funeral. He tried to remember the beginning Spanish from his junior college class, taken to improve his communication with his various helpers. “Domingo, no, sabado. Sabado,” Mas said proudly.
“Sa-tur-day?”
“Yah, Saturday morning.”
Mas proceeded with a series of gestures. He stretched out his arms about three feet and then, clasping his hands together, simulated the swing of a baseball bat.
Ramirez scratched his head, forcing Mas to do his pretend swing a couple of times.
“Ah-ya, ya, ya. Baseball bat,” Ramirez finally said, breaking out in a smile.
“Who take inside?”
“Ya, ya. I rememba. Chiquita bonita.”
Once he was settled in his new motel room, this time on the second floor, Mas found himself wishing for some advice. He went to the telephone—he knew the number by heart. Genessee Howard’s.
Genessee stayed quiet while Mas reported as best as he could what Shug had done to him. “And itsu called Masao. Probably to shut my mouth.” Because who would want to lay claim to being inside a strawberry?
Halfway through their conversation, the dam broke. The deluge began.
“This is criminal!” Mas had never heard Genessee’s voice so high-pitched. “This is an invasion of your civil rights! They can’t just take your DNA and use it in a food product that they’re going to sell to thousands of people! And what if the public finds out about it? You’ll never hear the end of it. What were they thinking?”
Now it was Mas’s turn to listen without saying a word.
Jimi Jabami woke up feeling like a new man. He was able to pay the mortgage on the farm this month, plus the past six months of monies that he owed, thanks to the deal he’d made with Linus Verdorben. There was no need now to hasten the demise of Ats’s life, not to mention his. He had a lot to look forward to, in fact. Today he would be introduced to all the strawberry growers and the commission as a new addition to Sugarberry’s staff. Barely finishing high school and never going to college, he would achieve his dream. He would become a breeder.
Jimi didn’t realize that the title would mean so much to him, but it did. He tried to imagine the expressions on Minnie’s and Billy’s faces. My name will be on patents, just like Shug’s was. He wouldn’t merely be a farmer, a founding member of a cooperative, but a member of the scientific community. Here was his chance to resurrect the Taro. Perhaps use the Masao, but combine it with some of Sugarberry’s older varieties. He could become a master chef—not with the cooking or grilling of food, but rather creating it. He could not wait to begin his new life.
Like almost every other structure involving farming in the area, the strawberry commission’s building was completely forgettable. Gray, dirt-colored bricks stacked into a giant rectangular box. The parking lot, at least, had been recently repaved, its black surface the color of the outside of an Oreo cookie. Most of the spots were taken, but Mas was lucky enough to find something toward the front, next to a television van with long antennae protruding from its roof.
“What did you do to Lupita?” Victor, wearing his trademark hoodie sweatshirt, stood in front of the Impala.
“Lupita?”
“My car.” Victor stared sadly at the deep scratches on the once-shiny brown paint on the Impala’s hood.
“Dis not your car anymore.” Lupita? Mas couldn’t stand people who named their cars. He vowed that his Impala would be released of any past silly attachments.
Mas ignored Victor and left the boy to cry over the damage; he had no time for it on today of all days.
A half a dozen uniformed officers stood by the door, facing what looked like the same group of protesters who had been at Sugarberry. Yes, there was the same girl with the macramé hat, the same Latino man with a shaved head and a goatee. Most of them were carrying signs: SAFE WORKERS, SAFE BERRIES. One woman started to chant, and after a few awkward tries, she finally got several of them to peal out the same out-of-tune protest refrain.
As the crowd grew more animated, a few of the policemen clutched at their batons.
Watching on the sidelines was Robin Arai.
“You’re still here,” she said to Mas, her sunglasses following the protesters.
From the time Mas had first met her, two weeks ago, Robin somehow looked thinner. Her cheekbones seemed more prominent, and even her graying hair, again pulled back in a bun, appeared less full.
Mas stood next to her for a while. She didn’t seem happy to have the company. A group of young uniformed officers walked by and, noticing Robin, greeted her with congenial messages.
“We’ll miss you, lieutenant.”
“Good luck.”
Mas waited until the officers disappeared inside the building. “Youzu goin’ somewhere?”
“I’m taking early retirement. It’s something I’ve been thinking of for a long time. Everything with Uncle Shug has shown me that life is too short.”
Yes, Mas thought, yes, indeed.
“Howsu the girlu, Alyssa?”
“Fine. Back at school. Why do you ask?” Finally the sunglasses turned to Mas. Before they stayed on him too long, he ducked his head and left for the press conference.
Inside, people were crammed into the hospital-white room. In the back, standing on a platform, were cameramen from local television stations, their equipment set on tripods. Folding chairs, which must have at one time been organized in straight lines and rows, had been moved to form clusters of cliques, each most likely representing various strawberry-growing cooperatives and companies, which could be identified by the color-coordinated polo shirts on the employees. A podium stood at the front of the room, arranged next to a long table with name cards that clearly read, “Billy Arai,” “Clay Gorman,” and “Linus Verdorben.” If the meeting had occurred a month earlier, Shug Arai’s name would have been there as well.
More than ever, Mas felt out of place. Before he could make a move for the exit, someone pushed him into the hallway next to the men’s bathroom.
“Do you know what’s going on? The San Jose Mercury-News is here. Christian Science Monitor. Associated Press. And a few local network TV reporters.” Billy Arai had gotten a haircut, which made him look all-American. That was good, Mas thought. After this was over, he might be viewed as the normal Arai.
“You’zu find out.”
“No, you tell me.”
“I’zu the Masao.”
“Yes, I know that Sugarberry’s variety is called the Masao.”
“No, no, I’zu the Masao. My cells in there.”
“What?” Billy was beginning to laugh.
This was no laughing matter. “I’zu the Masao.”
“No.” Billy folded his arms. “No.”
Mas could only manage a nod of his head.
“But how?”
“At college, Shug cutsu off dis bump on my arm. Neva tole me whatsu gonna happen with it.”
“Linus put him up to this. It was Linus.”
Although Mas knew that Linus was capable of the most heinous of crimes, he knew the creation of the Masao was definitely Shug’s brainchild.
“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.”
When Billy then learned that Mas was determined to talk to the reporters, he became desperate. “So what? You’re going to tell everyone that your cells are in the Masao? That’s suicide, Mas. Everyone will be after you. You’ll be labeled a freak, a monster. And my father will be Doctor Frankenstein.”
Mas knew what he was risking, sacrificing. His life, as he knew it, would be ending. He was like a kamikaze pilot, steering his plane into the enemy. Mas knew no other way to stop Linus Verdorben.
“Billy,” someone interrupted. Clay Gorman, who had finally combed his hair, whispered something in Billy’s ear.
“I need to get ready,” Billy told Mas. He shook his head. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
After the two men left for the front of the room, Mas stood beside the cameramen’s platform in the back. He was petrified. His hands felt clammy, and he thought he would pass out right then and there. He couldn’t believe that in less than an hour, he’d be on the other side of those cameras, announcing that he was more a part of the Masao strawberry than he cared to imagine. The news would spread like a flash from television camera to computer and cell phone. All of Watsonville’s finest were here to witness it in person—or almost all. There were a few absentees.
For instance, no Minnie. No surprise. She probably suspected that Mas would throw some kind of wrench into the introduction of the Masao, and she didn’t want to be there to witness it.
No Oily. Wasn’t he one of the big shots at Everbears? The Shigeo was supposed to save their hide. Oily would never miss an opportunity to share in the spotlight. Mas’s head was starting to pound again. And no Jimi Jabami—wait a minute, was that him on the other side of the room? Why was he in a suit? Mas found himself getting dizzy, losing his balance.
“Whoa, are you all right?” Rosa was at his side, steadying him. She was wearing the same black shirt and cargo pants that she’d worn yesterday. Her hair had a halo of frizz. She obviously hadn’t showered or groomed herself for at least a day. Mas was surprised to see her at the press conference in plain sight of Linus.
After Mas regained his footing, Rosa pointed to the TV cameras in the back row. “This is your doing, isn’t it?”
Actually, it was Genessee’s. She’d been the one to contact the media, although only after Mas asked her to do it. There was no other way. He couldn’t bear to think of the crates and crates of Masaos that would be grown and harvested throughout the coast, and who knows, even around the nation and the world.
“My group’s members had texted me that something big was going to go down here. I had to see it for myself.”
Like lookie-loos who wanted to see car crashes and a man with two heads, thought Mas.
“Look, I’m here to back you up. Support you. We all will.”
Mas was surprisingly moved. He really didn’t care for big-mouth protesters or rich hippies, but at this point, he would take what he could get.
Rosa left to join her protesting friends. Her presence had actually settled him down a bit. He balled his fists and stretched out his fingers. Looking down at the linoleum floor, he noticed a pair of sturdy black shoes on the man standing next to him.
“Quite a crowd here,” Sergeant Salgado said. “You wouldn’t expect it for a couple of new strawberries.”
Mas grunted and tried to move down a few feet, but a still photographer sitting cross-legged on the floor was blocking his way.
“A judge is going to sign off on that order to exhume Shug’s casket. It will probably be coming out tomorrow. If you want to share some information, this would be the time to do it.”
Mas’s mouth felt raw. “Excuse,” Mas said, and Salgado easily let him go. He went to the bathroom to splash cold water onto his face. After patting down his closed eyelids and cheeks, he opened his eyes, only to stare at the mirrored image of his enemy, Linus Verdorben.
“Magnificent work, really magnificent, Mas.” After wiping his hand with a paper towel, Linus pounded Mas’s back as if they were on the same sports team. He was wearing slacks, a bow tie, and high-toned suspenders.
“Getting all these media people—fantastic. You exceeded my expectations. I mean, with that stunt with the Impala and my fence, I got a better sense of what you were made of.”
Still facing the mirror, Linus parted his lips to check if any food particles were stuck in his teeth. “I see you’re dressed for the occasion, but it’s really not necessary. I’ll do all the talking.”
The fluorescent lights above the mirror were beginning to hurt Mas’s eyes. Linus was obviously changing his game plan. Instead of covering up the secret ingredient of the Masao, he’d decided to make it front-page news.
“Nobody will eatsu your berry.”
“Yes, you’re right. That’s probably true. It may, however, be a hot commodity among some fetish groups. But we’ll be famous, you and I, Mas. We’ll be a sensation all over the world. You see, I figure that beating strawberry yellows, that’s a limited audience. Just breeder, farmers, and the ag world would be interested in that. But this—I’ll be listed in every genetics paper. I’ll be on Wikipedia. And you will be, too.”
Linus smiled as if he had just won the Lotto.
Mas, on the other hand, felt like he’d been slammed with a ton of bricks. He fled the bathroom and tried to escape the building, but the sheriff’s deputies had moved in, blocking his exit.
Then came the audio feedback.
“Shh, shh.” The cameramen put on their headphones and adjusted their microphones. “The press conference is starting.”