Strawberry Yellow (25 page)

“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.”

S
hug 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.