Aim For Love (2 page)

The gong sounded from the farmhouse, booming through the quiet morning.

“My grandmother still refuses to use cellphones,” Kaz said with a smile that failed to put either of them at ease. “Progress and technology haven’t impressed her in her golden years.”

Roberto cleared his throat and folded his hands in front of him. “I’ll take care of this,” he volunteered.

Kaz gestured to the charred mess. “As soon as I finish up a couple of other chores, I’ll be back to help you.”

Roberto nodded toward the house. “You may be needed. I’ll deal with this.”

“On second thought,” Kaz said, “leave it. I want the sheriff to see it.”

Roberto stiffened, but nodded.

“Mauricio wants to see you before you leave for spring training,” Roberto said in a tone that Kaz recognized as forced. “He has something to give you.”

Roberto was a baseball fan, a true lover of the game; a cousin played on a farm team in Alabama. So Roberto understood Kaz’s passion. During the off-season Roberto caught for Kaz. And some afternoons after he’d finished his practice, Kaz pitched to Roberto’s boys in the field behind the barn.

But Roberto’s agitated attempt to change the subject didn’t ease Kaz’s mind. Nor did the brush-off. He didn’t want to alarm Roberto, but he sure as hell was going to report the meth lab to the authorities.

“Bring Mauricio over,” Kaz said. “I’ll test out his swing.”

Kaz liked Roberto; he had a passion for excellence and a love for the land. The previous month Roberto had offered to work for reduced pay until the farm got back in the black. But honor made it impossible for Kaz to accept such an offer. The Mendieta family was not going to suffer because Kaz hadn’t succeeded in solving the financial problems of the farm.

“I’ll bring him over after we return from the wedding.” Roberto shuffled his feet and didn’t look Kaz in the eye. “Perhaps I should stay behind. You may need me here.”

“I’ll be fine for a few days.” The wedding was a big celebration for the Mendietas. There was no way Kaz was going to let the problems of the farm keep him from joining his family. “There’s nothing that can’t wait a day or two. But when you get back, I’ll need your help with that back fencing. Our neighbor’s steers have knocked it over again.”

Roberto nodded. “No barbed wire.”

“Right. No barbed wire.”

Kaz knew Obaa had breakfast ready, but he had a few more areas to check on. He continued his morning inspection, walking along the stream until he met the fence that crossed it, the fence that divided his family’s land from the neighboring ranch. He’d yet to meet the people that old farmer Thompson had leased his land to, but their neglect and lack of respect showed in the high weeds left to go to seed.

Kaz followed the sloping path toward the border of the orchard and made a mental note to have Roberto mow before the weeds between the rows of trees reached any higher. Even with Roberto’s expertise and the seasonal crews, there was more work to do than the family could afford.

He started up the path toward the farmhouse, but then pivoted and headed to the Shinto shrine near the eastern border of the orchard. His grandmother would eat her own breakfast, knowing he’d gotten caught up with something. He had to stick to his routines, his rituals. They kept him sane. And helped keep his anger in check.

He stepped into the shrine as he did every morning he was at the farm. Stone walls bore the scent of years of incense, incense burned to honor his ancestors, to honor the past and keep its spirit alive in the present.

Fresh daffodils, perfectly arranged in a carved stone vase, sat next to the portrait of his grandfather. Above the tiny portrait hung his grandfather’s samurai sword. Every day his grandmother placed fresh flowers, lit incense and dusted every stone, every crevice of the shrine, and polished the bracket that held the sword.

The sword had been Kaz’s great-great-grandfather’s father’s and his father’s before that, reaching back sixteen generations. It had been one of the few items the first Tokugawa to come to the United States had brought with him when he emigrated from Japan in the late eighteen hundreds. The stories the sword could tell would be tales of a changing world. A world that now had little patience for rituals and the customs of the past.

Kaz took the sword into his hand and bowed before the portrait of his grandfather.

When Kaz was a scrawny boy, bullied in grade school, his grandfather had trained him in the samurai ways. He’d worked patiently, sometimes sternly, with Kaz, teaching him to read opponents, to wield the sword, to strengthen his body, to maneuver and to win. His new skills hadn’t stopped the taunting, but what he’d learned, what he’d practiced, gave him strength and the moves to back down the bullies looking for an easy mark.

His grandfather may have been wedded to the old ways, but when Kaz told him of his dream of becoming a Major League baseball player, he hadn’t tried to talk him out of it. Instead, he’d shown Kaz how to translate the samurai moves to meld with the game.

If anyone had seen the elderly man in his old-fashioned kimono wearing an oversized mitt and catching as Kaz threw ball after ball to him from the makeshift pitcher’s mound in their open field, they might have laughed. Would have laughed. But if they’d stood in front of the balls that Kaz threw with scorching speed, their laughter might have dissolved into fear.

After that first summer, Kaz had grown—nearly six inches in eighth grade and several more every year after that. At six foot four and with a reputation as a student of the martial arts, he was bothered by no one. Not to his face. Not anymore.

But those early days had left their mark.

Sometimes his anger spiked before he could catch it. Anger had speed, and he’d learned to use its power. But some days, in spite of his practice and his hours of meditation and focus, in spite of the careful lessons his grandfather had taught, anger was the more adept warrior, defeating him. And shame was an even sneakier opponent—subtle, almost ghostlike. Insidious.

Kaz spoke with no one regarding his battles with shame.

There was no point in bringing up the defeats or the subject; his grandmother, the only one who would surely understand, needed no reminders of the distressing emotion.

Since those early days, Kaz had cloaked his heart with a shield forged in the fires of shame and anger, insulating himself against the barbs of prejudice. He’d guarded his emotions and focused on his practice, on his work at the farm and on his dream. Only once had he dropped his guard. It had been a soul-shattering mistake. But the pain had taught him an unforgettable lesson. One that said that prejudice thrived even in a new century and that shame could attack even the strongest of individuals.

Dappled light danced through the budding trees as he walked out of the shrine and onto the meticulously raked practice circle. He raised the sword, then moved through the timeless sequences, crouching, testing, slicing the sword through the motions his body knew from hours of focused practice. Once satisfied, he replaced the sword in its bracket and bowed to the portrait of his stern-looking grandfather.

Five years had passed since his grandfather died. Since the moment he’d asked for Kaz’s vow to save the Tokugawa peach farm. Devastated at the thought of losing him, Kaz had lovingly agreed.

But next his grandfather had asked for the promise that Kaz now regretted. He’d asked Kaz to vow to marry a Japanese woman, to keep the old ways strong, he’d said. Overcome with grief, Kaz had agreed to carry out his grandfather’s wishes. But neither of Kaz’s vows had kept his grandfather from succumbing to the hungry ghost of death.

Some vows weigh heavier than others. And some take on weight over time. At the time he’d made his vow, Kaz hadn’t considered what he was promising.

As
ichiban no mago
, number one grandson, Kaz was expected to take over the farm, to accept his position and continue the family work and traditions. When he signed with the minor league team after college, his father didn’t speak to him for three months. Eventually they’d forged a sort of peace and a division of labor. Kaz spent every minute he wasn’t playing baseball working to keep the farm going, to make good on his vow. Some nights as he fell into bed, he was sure the pace would kill him.

And when his father’s health failed and he could no longer work the farm, Kaz faced a dilemma. His brother, three years younger, had offered to give up his studies at UC Davis and help, but Kaz insisted that Seiji finish his degree—if the farm failed, and it looked like it might, his brother would need a career to fall back on. His sister had her life as an artist in LA, so she would be okay.

Kaz rose from his knees and bowed again, then walked back out into the bright blue-sky day.

He stretched his arms into the dazzling sky. A breeze stirred, and the aroma of wet soil and the scent of spring, of new life, rose to him. The storm the previous night had brought badly needed rain to the peach orchard.

He stepped onto the pebbled path that his grandmother had laid out with ritual precision. The song of robins and wrens filled the air with bursting melodies. At the fork in the path, he headed toward the farmhouse.

A few of the oldest peach trees along the path had budded early. He hoped they wouldn’t bloom too early for the bees. If the bees found the days too cold, they wouldn’t leave their hives and pollinate those early blossoms. But the weather guys had promised heat to follow the storm, unseasonable heat. After a dreary winter, Kaz was ready for heat.

He gazed out at the older trees. Heirloom trees. Sun Crest peach trees. Trees that would bear the finest, sweetest, most delicately fleshed fruit.

And that was the problem.

His problem.

The Tokugawa peach orchards bore fruit suited to another time. The fruit they grew couldn’t hold up to the demands of modern packing and shipping or to weeks of refrigerated storage. Heirloom peaches were meant to be eaten when ripe and juicy, when their perfume and flavor were at their peak. When his great-grandfather planted the Sun Crests, life had been slower paced and the taste and quality of a fruit mattered more than its suitability for long-distance travel.

But the market didn’t care that his family had planted these orchards decades ago.

Slow fruit, that’s what his family had. Slow fruit for a world spinning faster every day.

He inspected the tree nearest the path. No signs of overwintering peach borer larvae. But that didn’t mean the worms weren’t there or wouldn’t come. There would be more work ahead. And more expenses.

In the back of his mind he calculated again the costs of repairing the irrigation pipes, of the labor required for pruning, of the new sorter they needed to help with packaging the fruit. No matter how he did the calculations, the expenses always outran the profits. The market for heirloom peaches grew smaller every year.

It was ironic that his dream of making the big leagues might be the only way to save the farm—an irony that his father wouldn’t appreciate, at least not until he could see the tangible results.

The truth was, Kaz loved the farm almost as much as he loved baseball. Almost.

And if things went well in spring training and he made the team, this would be the year he could set things right.

Spring training was only three weeks away. He had a chance to prove himself, a chance to change everything. If he made the Major League roster and signed the big-league contract, his salary would keep the farm going. He’d make enough to hire additional workers, pay a manager and fund badly needed repairs.

He’d been called up during the playoffs at the end of the previous season, but the thrill had worn off quickly as he’d had to warm the bench and watch. It was just his luck that the Giants had phenomenal pitchers and they’d been free of injuries through the playoffs.

After coming so close to tasting his dream, he sure didn’t want to go back down to the minors. But there were a hundred men who’d be playing the spring games, men who all wanted a place on the team. Only twenty-five of them would make the cut.

But there weren’t a hundred men who’d trained as he had. Kaz was pretty sure that this year, when they saw him pitch, he’d make the twenty-five-man team roster.

He let out a deep sigh as he ducked under a low-hanging branch. If he didn’t ... he’d come up with another plan to fund the farm. He’d figure a way to cut costs. Maybe the family could make it another year on his minor league salary and the slim income that the peaches brought in.

But if events went the way he’d planned, he could see to it that he kept his vow. At least one of them.

When he reached the steps of the farmhouse’s back porch, his grandmother stood waiting. Though she was three steps above him, she barely reached his shoulders.

“You work too hard, Kazi,” she said in Japanese.

Though her English was fluent, she always spoke to him in her native language. She’d resisted learning English, but Kaz’s father had brought in a local tutor, a man originally from London. Neither she nor Kaz had ever lost the flat vowels and formal sounds they’d learned from him. His formal English accent had been one more thing Kaz had been razzed about by his schoolmates.

She moved into the house with the grace of a much younger woman. She still had agility and strength from years of practicing aikido with his grandfather. Kaz followed, kicking off his street shoes as she had and donning indoor slippers.

“Mr. Erickson called,” she said over her shoulder. “Your father is considering selling him the north acreage.”

“Over my dead body,” Kaz spat back in English.

She whirled to face him.

“Do not say these words, Kazi. It is your father’s decision. You will respect that.”

She stopped near the door leading into her herb-drying room.

“And your friend Alex called. His voice is on the machine. And I answered a call from Miss Kingston. She said she would call again.”

She watched Kaz’s face, and he knew she was searching for emotion. He put up his most impenetrable stare.

Her face mirrored his. She was samurai and could call up
niramiai
, the practiced stare that could melt defenses. And she’d been by his grandfather’s bedside when Kaz had made his promises, when words spoken had become vows of honor. Of all people, she knew the vows that bound him. Since that time, he’d learned to be careful of words. They could harm and they could heal, but in a sacred vow, they shouldn’t be spoken impulsively, driven by emotion.