Mas told Haruo to go ahead inside, and then walked outside the chapel. A tall monument stood in the back next to a patch of grass. It was skinny and pointed; at the top was a concrete man, helmet on his head, hands at his sides, and a rifle hanging from his shoulder. There was a plaque with a verse:
Those who lie here gave their lives,
That this country,
beset by its enemies,
might win out of their sacrifice
victory and peace.
Dwight Eisenhower
Surrounding the monument were plaques set into the ground with names of dead Nisei veterans, some marked with the Buddhist chrysanthemum; others, the Christian cross.
Beyond the soldiers were more graves of mothers, daughters, fathers, sons, all Japanese. Beyond that were black families, even a good number dating back more than a hundred years. Some tombstones had oval photos of older black women wearing corsages, and black men in felt hats. There were cement angels looking over the graves of babies, born and dead within the same year. The markers werent lined up straight and perfect, like at some of the high-tone cemeteries in the hills. Instead, the ground had shifted, causing some to rise like crooked teeth.
It took Mas a good ten minutes before he found it. A headstone, short and squat, shaped much like his late wife herself. The letters were filled with dirt, and Mas felt a pang of shame. He should have come earlier, he thought, trying to scrape the letters clean with the edge of a matchbook.
After Mari had been told of Chizukos cancer, she didnt want to go back to school. But Chizuko insisted. They didnt know how long she had maybe six months, maybe another twenty years. You cant do anything here at home, Chizuko said. You study hard, get good grades. Thats best medicine for me.
Chizuko was fine during the winter and spring quarters, but experienced a setback in the summer. It was as if she could let down her guard because her daughter was on academic break.
Whats wrong with you? Mari was wearing a dress with nylons. She had gone to the hospital right after her job at a law firm downtown. She now stood in the doorway of the den.
Mas lowered the volume on the television. Huh?
Why dont you support Mom more?
I go, ebery day. He went religiously to the Beverly Hills hospital, seven days a week, from three to six oclock.
But you dont talk to her. You just sit there, watching old TV shows. And when you do talk to her, you guys end up fighting.
What can I do? She has plenty of doctas. Mas squeezed the television remote.
Why dont you tell her thanks?
Thanks? Why I have to say thank you? thought Mas, but he dared not speak. He knew enough to keep quiet when the women in his household got mad.
Shes not doing well, Dad. Cant you tell? Youre not going to have another chance.
Chance for what?
Fourth stage. Thats what shes in, Dad. The fourth stage. Its not good, okay? You know that as much as me. Mari gestured wildly with her hands. Are you that out of touch? Are you that dense?
Mas turned up the volume on the
Gunsmoke
rerun.
Mari glared, her eyebrows arching down. Ill never marry a man like you, she said, leaving the den.
Mas felt as if hed been stung by a bee, like the time hed been clipping an orange tree for an Indian businessman. Her words cut into his skin, but after the initial pain, Mas felt nothing at all.
The letters were almost completely clean when Mas sensed a presence standing over him. Akemi, wearing a black pantsuit, handed him a handkerchief from her purse.
Mas shook his head.
Kitanai, yo.
Go ahead, Akemi said. Please.
The sun had dipped halfway down, filling the cemetery with shadows. Mas could barely tell if the headstone looked any better. He should have come more regularly, maybe brought some cymbidium during the summer months. But the fact was that he hadnt. There were no excuses. He had had the time. Until recently, he had had transportation. He should have never let her be forgotten, in front of all the others buried at Evergreen Cemetery.
Akemi, meanwhile, had her own agenda. She was on the far edge of the Japanese graves. Clutching her soiled handkerchief, Mas made his way to where she was standing. In spite of the darkness, Mas could still make out the letters on the headstone: susumu haneda, 18981946, husband, father, brother, he was our hero.
We had the mortuary handle all the arrangements, Akemi said, taking the handkerchief from Mas. They even sent me a picture and a map. But this is the first time for me to see this in person.
Mas stayed quiet. He had had no idea Jojis father was buried right here in Evergreen.
He died in a camp in New Mexico after the war. Somehow he contracted TB. Akemi folded the handkerchief in half. A family friend had hung on to his ashes. I wanted to bury him in Hollywood, near the movie stars. They wouldnt let me. Its just as well, I guess. Here, he is among friends.
Mas averted his eyes and then noticed that the plot next to it had been recently dug up. That didnt need any explanation. It was there that the fake Joji Haneda would be making his new home, this time forever.
The funeral must have been halfway over when Mas and Akemi finally entered the chapel. Mas could already smell incense from the small lobby area, where two Japanese men and one woman arranged
koden
envelopes on a long folding table. One wrote numbers on each envelope, another recorded names in a ledger, and finally, the last one looped rubber bands around bundles. Only the last worker looked up and tipped his head. Mas reciprocated and slapped down his envelope without stopping to sign in.
The public offering of incense had already begun. A line formed in the middle of the aisle; Mas could see Tugs white hair somewhere in the front. A woman, her purse hanging from her arm, stepped forward to a pot smoking with incense sticks. Shiny rosary beads hung from her clasped hands as she bent toward the Buddhist altar, a black box with gold decoration. She then pinched ash and released it into another pot. She bowed again. She walked over to the coffin. One half of it was open, and Mas could see the outline of Rikis hooked nose. A large framed photo was set on the closed portion of the coffin. It was Riki, smiling, outside his Ventura nursery.
Tug was next. Devout Christian that he was, he avoided the pot of incense and Buddhist altar. Instead, he went straight to the coffin and bowed to Rikis body. The top of Tugs hair was still sparse, and a gauze bandage was placed over his bruise. Are you nuts? thought Mas, licking his lips. This guy hit you, maybe even couldve killed you if he got the right spot. And here you are, bowing to him.
Tugs next action surprised Mas even more. He went right to the front row of the pews, where the family sat, and shook hands with each one. The widow, her permed hairdo shaking. The pale son periodically wiping his hooked nose. The daughter weeping into a handkerchief. Tug looked sincere; in fact, Mas knew that he was sincere. For a second, Mas almost hated his friend.
Tug slid back into his pew, and the ritual continued. Row by row, the mortician tapped the shoulders with his white-gloved fingers, and the people rose and lined up.
Shuji Nakane was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps, with his dirty work completed, he was already on a plane back to Hiroshima.
Finally, it was Akemi and Mass turn. They stood with the others on the right-side aisle. As the priest chanted, they stepped closer and closer to the pot of incense and the coffin.
Akemi approached the body first. Instead of keeping her distance of three steps back, she got so close that her hips touched the coffin. She bent over and studied Rikis face for a good minute and a half, long enough for old women to nudge their sleeping husbands in the pews. The heads of the family members, minutes ago bent down in grief, were now upright, eyes still on Akemi.
Go tell them, Mas thought. Go tell them all,
this is not my brother. This is not Joji Haneda.
But Akemi instead quietly backed away from the body. Her cheeks were shiny with tears, and Mas was confused. Why be sad over Rikis death? He was a fraud; Akemi must have figured it out by now.
It was Mass turn, so he took a few steps toward the coffin. Rikis skin was a strange peach color, his age spots covered up and his thinning hair carefully combed back with oil. Are you really dead, Riki? he thought. Is this really your end, or another beginning? Mas half expected Riki to rise any minute, brush off his face makeup, and sneer. But the hooked nose remained still. He looked so peaceful that Mas realized that his friend and nemesis was indeed gone.
After the whole room had made the procession to the incense pots and Rikis coffin, another speaker took the microphone. A familiar long face, cheekbones, the nose. The son was giving the closing comments, addressing the crowd. Again, my mother, sister, and I thank all of you for coming. I know that my father would be grateful to see your presence here tonight.
Before Mas heard more, he stepped outside, leaving Akemi standing alone in the back. The sun had almost set, and a film of gray rested on the parking lot. He ached for a cigarette. He patted his windbreaker and pants pockets. Nothing.
Tobacco? a familiar voice asked from the side of the building. It was Shuji Nakane, holding out an open package of filtered cigarettes. In his other hand was Mass
