Strawberry Yellow (26 page)

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.”

T
oday is an exciting day in strawberry history, and I’m glad you can all be here to witness the introduction of two strawberry varieties, varieties that will be our response to strawberry yellows.” The head of the commission was standing at the podium. He was half Jimi’s age and didn’t know squat about strawberries. Yet that didn’t stop him from droning on and on about the business. “Our industry is more than a century old, and we have been at a crossroads. Today will determine the course of our future.”

Jimi’s throat felt dry. He’d been fighting a cold these past few days. He hoped his voice would last throughout the day, enough for him to thank all those who would be congratulating him.

Billy was asked to speak on behalf of Everbears. He came prepared with a computer slide show that was full of strawberry family-tree charts. Jimi actually found it somewhat interesting, but the rest of the crowd apparently did not. The man next to Jimi began tapping his foot on the bottom rung of the folding chair in front of him. One woman even audibly sighed. Another man kept shifting his weight, causing his chair to creak.

It probably didn’t help that Billy was a rotten public speaker. Shug, on the other hand, was a snake-oil salesman able to promise the moon to anyone who was gullible enough to listen. He had no shame, that was for sure. At least his son
seemed to have a little more sense.

“We are calling this new berry the ‘Shigeo.’ As some of you know, that was my father’s full name.” Billy’s monotone voice then skipped, as if it was a scratched record on a turntable. And then it skipped again.

Was this grown man going to cry?
Jimi couldn’t believe it. He felt like spitting, but he swallowed his disgust instead. In a few minutes, everyone would be on their feet, clapping for Jimi Jabami and his new career and incarnation, the Maker of the Strawberry in the Twenty-first Century.

Billy coughed away his emotion.

Clay Gorman stood up. In his trademark long-sleeved gray t-shirt, he looked ever the pipsqueak that he was. And while Billy was certainly no orator, Clay was even worse. Billy was John F. Kennedy next to his boss.

“The Shigeo is really a great berry. We hope you enjoy it and we brought some for you to try.”

Men and women in polo shirts began passing out clamshell containers of strawberries while Clay posed for photos with Billy. Jimi practically barked at the young man offering him some berries, almost causing an accident.
No Shigeos for me. Good riddance.

The head of the commission was back at the dais. He pulled the microphone back up and introduced Sugarberry. “As most of you know, we lost one of our breeding pioneers this month, Shug Arai. He had devoted his life to the development of the best berry, and unbeknown to many of us, had been working on a lifelong project up to the day he died. His associate, Dr. Linus Verborden, will be providing details on this special berry. Dr. Verborden. . . .”

Linus, fingering his suspenders, rose from his seat. Jimi, meanwhile, smoothed down his hair.

“Stop!” a familiar voice called out from the depths of the crowd. The legs of folding chairs squeaked against the floor as people got up and moved to create a pathway for a couple walking toward the front. Minnie and Oily. Someone followed them, a slight figure with a mini Afro.

Whatthe—

Minnie went straight for the microphone. “I am the widow of Shug Arai, and I want to make an important announcement. I am a co-owner of this patent now, and I refuse to let it be licensed to anyone.”

Jimi was confused. Why were the Arais against the Masao now? He scanned the crowd and saw the miserable little gardener, Mas, in the back by the cameramen. His hands on his knees, he looked stunned as well.