Mas carried a couple of six-packs of beer from the refrigerated cases to the cash register and placed them on the counter beside a fishbowl filled with wrapped bubble gum.
Starting early, Mas. Frank punched buttons on his old-fashioned cash register. So, what, pack of Marlboros?
Nah. Not today. Mas pulled down a large bag of tortilla chips from a rack next to the counter.
Dont tell me you quittin. Heck, I should start selling those patches and nicotine gum. Can make a bundle, I think.
The cash register rang, spitting out the bottom drawer. Nine-ninety, Frank said, collecting Mass twenty-dollar bill. As he made change, he asked, Hey, by the way, you see Yanos kids anymore?
Mas shook his head. The Yanos had owned an old, rickety store next door full of pickled plums and dried seaweed. Mr. Yano had been tall for a Japanese. Most of his teeth were rotten, but that hadnt stopped him from smiling all the time.
Yeah, Ive been thinkin about em. That was a shame, I tell you. Now, why would anybody go and shoot the ole man for fifty dollars, no less. That Mr. Yano, he wouldnt hurt a fly. Hey, Frank-
san,
hed call out to me anytime Id come through the door. He had some nasty stuff in there long pickles in this mean brown stinkin stuff. What do you call it?
Tsukemono.
Yeah,
su-KI-mo-no.
Ooh-whee. Hed always pick that stuff up and shake it in my face. Frank lifted the six-packs into a brown paper bag. And remember how Yano liked your daughter. He would call something every time he saw her. What was it again?
Mas hugged the bag of six-packs, feeling the coldness against his chest.
It was that word, you know, for daughter. Huh, Mas, daughter?
As Mas pulled the door open, Frank spoke again, this time louder. Oh, now I remember.
Mu-SU-me,
wasnt it?
Haruo awoke when Mas climbed into the car with the beer and chips. After they got back on the road, Mas scowled. That ole man talk too much. Now he goin on and on bout Yano-
san.
Yano, Yano. Oh, yah, Yano. Haruo patted down his strip of hair. That was so
kawaiso
. Was gonna retire, huh? Rememba we all went down to Huntington to give blood for Yano-
san
. You got all dizzy, almost gotsu sick.
Mas had agreed to do it only because Chizuko had pushed him. Then later he found out that his blood type AB was not even compatible with Yanos. Yah, all for nutin.
Not for nutin. I mean, Yano didnt make it, but maybe you helped some other fella.
Mas cringed to think that his blood was now pulsing in a strangers veins and heart.
Even me, I plan to give my body to doctas after I die. Haruo opened up the bag of tortilla chips and shoved some into his mouth.
They gonna take it?
Oh, yah. Who wouldnt? Everyone wants to know whatsamatta. Some people ask right out. You know those
hakujin
sWhat happened to your face? I used to say, Bomb, World War Two. Then the people got real quiet; didnt wanna talk no more. Then I start changin my story. Car crash. Wife got mad. Fire. People start noddin their head, tellin me about same kind of accident their brother, sister, in-law, was in.
Mas didnt know how Haruo was going to help anybody by giving his body to science, but there was no use asking more questions. The ride back home was quiet, aside for Haruos licking his fingers, one finger at a time.
Youre lucky, Mas, Haruo said finally.
Huh?
You got no mark on you. Haruo folded over the top edge of the plastic bag. Itsu like it neva happened.
* * *
Once he got home, Mas could not rest. He wandered from the refrigerator to the living room easy chair to the bedroom to the kitchen table. No matter where he wandered, he heard the ticking of the clock on his bowling trophy. He had grown used to the quiet, but now it felt so heavy that he couldnt breathe.
He remembered, years ago, whenever he returned from work, the house was full of smells and sounds. His daughter, Mari, was usually in the kitchen, her books sprawled out on the table, her strange-looking shoes called wallabies abandoned by the doorway. Chizuko, a full-length apron tied around her neck and waist, would be putting a tamale pie in the oven, or frying potato and ground beef croquettes over the stove. The whole kitchen would smell like freshly steamed rice, short-grain and sticky.
But one winter day, no remnants of Mari were seen or heard. What happened? Is Mari home? Mas asked after closing the screen on the kitchen door.
Masao-
san,
take off your work boots. I just mopped. Shes somewhere. Maybe in her room. Chizuko continued chopping her carrots.
Mas left his lunch cooler on the kitchen counter and flung open Maris door.
Dad! Mari looked up from her pink desk, her dark eyebrows pinched together. Her hair, long and frizzy, dominated her tiny body. On her teeth were metal braces, which cost Mas at least a grand. Knock, I keep telling you. This is my room. Private. A textbook was open on her desk, and someone had drawn fierce lines and circles through one of the photographs.
Whatchu doin?
My homework, Dad. Leave me alone. A large framed corkboard, which Mas had assembled and painted, was hung over her desk. Magazine clippings of young, pale
hakujin
boys with long hair were displayed on the board with thumbtacks.
Orai, orai.
Mas left, pulling the door closed until he heard the click of the latch.
As they ate their curry rice that night, Mas knew that something was wrong. Mari didnt fight to see her television program, and let Chizuko view the nightly news with Walter Cronkite. She went straight to her room afterward, and Mas could hear the static from her portable AM-FM radio behind the closed door. When Mari went to the bathroom, Mas snuck into her bedroom and took a closer look at her textbook. It had maps of Hawaii and Asia, photographs of
hakujin
men in helmets and uniforms. He flipped to the page that was defaced. A newsstand full of papers that read JAPS BOMB PEARL HARBOR.
The next day, Mari seemed in a better mood. Even her bedroom door was open, and she had a large poster board on the shag rug.
Whatchu doin?
Homework. Mari bent over the board. She wore striped kneesocks, which were worn at the heels.
Dont bother her. Chizuko was standing behind Mas, wiping her damp hands on the sides of the apron. She has an oral project on Friday. World War Two. Shes doing it on Hiroshima.
Mari turned, her teeth glittering with metal. Yeah, Im going to interview you, Dad. Because you were there, right? Thats what Mom told me.
Mas went into the hall closet and took out a fresh T-shirt and jeans. In the bathroom, he stripped off his green-stained clothes and stuffed them in the hamper. He washed his hands with soap and hot water, trying to remove the dirt from his fingernails with a brush. But no matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldnt get rid of those lines of dirt.
Mari had Mas sit on his fake leather easy chair, while she settled on the couch. Her hair was pushed back with a headband, exposing her high cheekbones. She held a pen and notebook. She even crossed her bony legs, her striped socks cuffed at the knees. Okay, tell me your full name and birth date.
You know my name.
Your full name. Like a middle name.
Chizuko appeared from the kitchen. Japanese dont have middle names.
Mom, Im interviewing Dad.
Masao Arai. Octoba eighteenth, 1929.
Okay, so that means you were sixteen no, fifteen at the time of the bombing.
Mas nodded.
So, where were you on that day?
Huh?
When the
pikadon
fell, Chizuko hissed from the dining room table, a thread and needle in her hands.
Mom!
Okay, Im just helping. Dad gets confused sometimes.
At train station. In the basement. Mas swallowed. It seemed as if something were stuck in his throat, but it wouldnt budge.
Okay, so were you by yourself?
Mas looked at the lamp. Dim. He would have to check the lightbulbs, he noted.
Dad, was anyone else with you?
I have no time for dis. Mas got up from his easy chair.
Chizuko stopped sewing. What?
But, Dad, I have to interview you. I told my teacher and everything.
I have two sprinkler systems to work on.
Masao-
san,
they say its going to rain this week.
Talk to
her
. Mas gestured toward Chizuko. She likes talkin.
We were in the
inaka
. I didnt see anything until afterward. Chizuko stuck the needle straight into the pants she was mending. Shes counting on you to get a good grade.
Mas stumbled in the hall, leaving his daughter on the couch. Her face was expressionless, aside from her small nostrils, which flared out ever so slightly.
Later, Chizuko made arrangements for Mari to speak to Haruo. He came, sat in the easy chair, and put his stockinged feet up on a padded rest. He spoke of standing outside that morning with his older brother, cupping his hands, and staring at the plane and then white light. The next moment, he was covered in debris, surrounded by fire. He felt something roll from his face. It was his eye. He told Mari how his brother, less wounded, carefully took the bloody mass and placed it in shreds of cloth. Together they found their parents and other brothers and sisters. All alive. A miracle. Except for the eye, which medical workers eventually tossed into a bonfire.
Late at night, Mas saw light coming from Maris room. He placed his face in the slim crack from the half-open door and watched Mari fold origami cranes, a pile of red, green, yellow, and purple growing on her desk. Chizuko pushed him from behind, her rolled-up hair covered in a pink cap. Dont bother her, she said. You could have helped, but she doesnt need you anymore.
On Friday morning, before she left for school, Mari proudly displayed her poster board to Chizuko in the kitchen. Im the only one who interviewed someone firsthand. Well, aside from Leroy Johnson, who talked to his uncle who was in the horse calvary.
I think you will get an A for sure. Chizuko pulled some plastic bags from a drawer. Just make sure it doesnt get wet in the rain.
Hi, Dad.
Hullo.
Mari held up the poster, the top of it touching her chin. Multicolored cranes were pasted on the sides of the board, while the center was taken up with black-and-white photographs from newsmagazines. Mas had seen the images before. The woman with a thatched pattern burnt into her face. The boy with the melted ear. The shadow of a man permanently recorded in the stone steps of Sumitomo Bank.
In a corner, Mari had written in stenciled letters, HARUO MUKAI. Underneath it were his birth date, birthplace Fresno, California and other information. Mari had even drawn a bloody eye with colored pencil.
What do you think, Dad?
Um. You finished. Dont have to worry about it no more. Mas reached for his Sears nylon jacket from the closet.
Where you going? Chizuko pointed to the raindrops hitting the window. Cant work; its raining.
Just have
yoji
.
Yoji?
More like horse business, right?
I saysu
yoji,
I mean
yoji
. Mas turned the double lock on the door.
What time you coming home? Chizuko asked from the doorway.
Dont know. Mas released the screen door and walked down the porch steps. He pushed his horse racing crib sheets further in his jeans pocket and felt the rain wet his head.
