Mas knew that he couldnt lose those images of the ravaged bodies as easily as before. Before, there were card games and horses and mouths to feed. Now his mind was like a good-for-nothing videotape player, the same thing showing over and over.
Mas never regretted marrying Chizuko, but he often suffered for it. Mostly because she was smarter than Mas at least with language and books and reminded him of it every day of her life.
You fill out the form. Its
your
contractors license, not mine, Chizuko said, her lips pursed over her slight overbite.
Mas struggled with the terms, the exceptions, which seemed to rise and float from the white sheets of the renewal form for his landscape contractors license. He then silently and secretively went to the side of his junior high school daughter, who was reading at her desk.
Mari sucked on the end of a pen. Have you taken California Pesticide Test 105 in the past five years? You know pests, bugs,
mushi
?
Yah, yah, I knowsu. Took it last year.
Then well check yes. Mari drew a crooked X in a box.
So they went down all twenty questions on the form, and then Mari turned the bottom toward Mas. Here, sign here, Dad. Her fingernail, old pink polish chipped away and now shaped like fish food flakes, tapped a long line.
Mas took the pen from Mari, held tight, and signed his name carefully, with a magnificently large M and A. He felt another presence and noticed Chizukos dagger eyes staring at them from the doorway. Pitiful, she said. Pitiful man.
It was hard to explain why he couldnt write English, or even Japanese, well. Hed never taken to school spent more time teasing classmates and terrorizing teachers, like the rest of the boys.
Asobi,
play, took up all of their creative energy that is, before the war.
There was
shogi,
in which they advanced white Japanese chess pieces, uniformly shaped and pointed, on a square board. They waxed cards of their favorite sumo wrestlers and devised various games. Throw it down; faceup was the winner. Throw it down; the one touching the most cards was the winner.
They went into the countryside, tore off vines, and braided rope, which they used to whip bamboo tops into cyclonic circles. They dug small holes in dirt to simulate a baseball diamond, and took turns trying to launch marbles into the holes and get to home plate. In the wintertime, they helped the village men assemble a large bamboo frame in the shape of a triangular cone, covered it with hay, and set it on fire. While some people sang, Mas and his friends poked
mochi
speared atop long sticks into the flames. Once the rice cake puffed up, they dipped it in soy sauce and sugar and stuffed the stickiness into their mouths.
Joji moved next door in 1939, and the first time he saw him, Mas could tell he was different. First of all, Joji combed his hair back with some kind of grease and always seemed to have a smile on his lips. He usually chewed on a sliver of bamboo, and Mas always wondered if it was the same piece day after day. Joji liked football, not baseball or judo, and his Japanese sounded strange, as if he cut the words in pieces that didnt fit together so well. Before the war, all the boys in their class respected Joji, much like they would an exotic lizard. They kept their distance, but then, they didnt try to anger him, either. But when the war with America began, the boys became bolder, chanting
inu, inu,
as he approached, throwing dirt and blows whenever convenient.
Mas, on the other hand, feared Joji, thinking that he was like a magnet, bringing trouble to all who were close. There were plenty of other
Kibei,
American-born, at Koryo High School, and many of them blended in. But Mas didnt want to take any chances. As soon as he turned fifteen, he went by the family registry office to see if he could join the navy like his two older brothers.
The office was a simple shack with a metal roof. The clerk, his neck as droopy as old chicken skin, wet his fingers in a dish of water and leafed quickly through the registry. Arai yes, eight children.
Masao; I am the middle one.
So . . . Arai Masao. The clerk held a straightedge to the pages of the registry. Fifteen years of age. Too young. October.
But I want to go. They take old men. Im just four months away.
The man paused and then moved the straightedge up and down several times. He glared at Mas and pulled on the loose skin under his chin. It says here that you only have American citizenship.
What? That cant be.
No, said the clerk. It is very strange. The record shows that you are the only one in your family to have solely U.S. citizenship.
But my two older brothers have dual. There must be some kind of mistake. I was just born over there, but all I really know is Japan. Mas didnt remember much about California, other than the rows of lettuce that he had grasped like a giant ball. The leaves were crisp, with white veins; he could even tear the first layer off, then smack a slap on his dimpled hands, and then back on a scratchy blanket, alone in an empty field.
There might be a foul-up, but its not our office. The clerk slammed the registry shut. Check with your parents, and find out why they didnt change your status. As far as we are concerned, you are legally a full-blooded American.
Mas felt sick to his stomach. To be one of the enemy a hundred percent. How could his parents have forgotten to make sure he was properly registered? The family registry was everything. It didnt take much to make sure an American-born child also had Japanese citizenship status. But it did require the parents to care enough to follow through with it.
Mass stomach churned, like when he was lost on the train when he was a child. He was desperate for the familiar, the indigo butterflies of his mothers kimono, the pokes and teasing of his older brothers and sisters. But the train was only full of strangers, grim faces, and musty clothing. Finally the stationmaster pulled him out of the car at the last stop.
His mother came two hours later. She usually walked like a man, steady and wide, but the butterfly cloth constricted her large gait. You have to be alert, Masao-
chan,
she said on their way home. Her hands were callused and dry. You cant expect me to always be looking for you.
Those words haunted Mas as he left the registry office. His vision was so blurred he couldnt see straight. When he arrived at his front gate, he began throwing rocks at his house, first pebbles, and then round stones near their fish pond. With the impact of each rock, the wood frame shook and rattled. In spite of the noise, no one came out. Everyone was probably in the rice fields without him.
Joji Haneda had come out of his house. Arai-
kun,
what are you doing? he said.
Mas threw more stones toward his parents bedroom.
What are you doing? Joji repeated. He was still wearing his work uniform with his name tag sewn on the left-hand side.
Its none of your business. Stay out of it. The last thing Mas wanted was to be associated with Joji Haneda.
He raised another rock, and Joji held back Mass arm. Mas then swung the other side of his body into Jojis chest, easily flipping him over.
Joji seemed stunned for several minutes as he lay beside the koi pond. For a little guy, you sure are tough, he finally said.
After that point, the two began walking together to work at the train station in the middle of Hiroshima. Joji would tell him about life in Los Angeles, the tall buildings, the steaks as thick as concrete slabs, and the women their legs as long as gazelles.
Im going back, he told Mas. My papas there.
You cant go to America.
When America wins.
Mas was thankful that no one was around. But Japan is going to win.
Joji laughed. You dont know, Masao-
kun
. You dont know all they have over there. Land, manpower. The streets are full of cars. How is Japan going to beat that?
Mas pondered the image of a large boulevard crowded with shiny American automobiles.
You can come with me.
No, Mas said. Hiroshima was his home.
You will, Joji said. We can even live together. Eat steaks and play football all day. You can get a job designing cars, and we can get married to some beautiful girls. Even the Japanese ones look different over there.
Mas stopped putting up a fight. Jojis imagination was the only thing that was making him happy, and Mas wasnt going to rob him of that.
* * *
Mas sat in the garage for what seemed like hours, until a car pulled into the driveway.
This was first time Mas had seen Tug since the poker game. Tug looked a bit haggard, puffy bags underneath his eyes. He hadnt trimmed his beard; the white hair seemed scraggly, rough. Some hair had started to grow over his wound, like white fuzz on an Elberta peach.
You lookin good, Mas lied.
Avoiding a large oil spot on the floor, Mas pulled out an old metal Coleman cooler. Sit down, he said, offering Tug an Orange Crush from the old refrigerator in the corner.
Tug tipped his head back and took two large gulps of the soda before wiping his beard with the edge of his sleeve. You got anything stronger, Mas?
Mas frowned. There hadnt been a time when hed seen Tug drink liquor. Even at Tug and Lils sons wedding, waiters in black tuxedos poured fizzy apple juice into plastic champagne glasses, much to Mass disappointment. No wine, even, Mas had mumbled, and received a sharp jab from Chizukos elbow. And now here was Tug, begging for alcohol.
The timing was fitting, so Mas reopened the Frigidaire without so much as one word. He tore off two cans of Budweiser from the plastic six-pack holder, and together they drank in silence in front of the oil stain.
Tug got up from the Coleman cooler, placed his drink on the top, and went over to the workbench. He spun the end of the clamp. Thought about picking up woodworking since my retirement. Theres a class at Pasadena City College.
Class? You got to pay money?
Yeah, I think fifty, sixty dollars, something like that.
Forget it. You come here; I teach you all you need to know. I even teach Mari,
honto yo
. She pretty good. Made a little car. The wheels had been nailed in somewhat unevenly, but it still was able to roll forward.
Didnt do much with Joy, although I did take her to work a couple of times, said Tug.
You kiddin? You mean to those dirty restaurants?
Tug smiled and brushed down his beard. It wasnt company policy, but when Lil was sick, I snuck her in one of my jobs. Actually, she seemed to enjoy it a lot more than her brother. Checking out grime, looking for rodent infestation. Who would have thought a little girl would take to it?
Maybe thats why shes a docta.
Not yet.
But soon. Mas dropped a small bolt into a jar that had once held creamed corn.
You ever take Mari on your route? Tug asked.
Yah, one time. In the summertime. It had been Maris idea, actually. Chizuko and Mas both tried to dissuade her, for different reasons, but finally Mas relented.
How did she like it?
She liked lunch; I can tell you that much. She eat sandwiches Chizuko packed, then wanted to get some fast-food hamburgers. I gave her easy work raking leaves, that kinda stuff. Oh, she make a mess. I tole Chizuko when I getsu home. No more. Dis work, not play. Now she killsu every plant. No joke.
Black thumb, huh. Thats kind of funny. Tug returned to the Coleman cooler and gulped down his second beer.
Mas returned to his workbench. He jiggled one of the baby food jars and watched the nails settle.
Do you think he did it? asked Tug.
A cool breeze tickled Mass neck. Huh?
Did that boy hurt that woman?
