by Ruth Ozeki
Dear Mom,
Wow, thanks for the money order. Guess what I’m going to spend it on? My college textbooks! I got into Berkeley. I got a scholarship and everything! I think I’m going to major in Asian Studies, or maybe English. Or both. So I’ll need lots of books, and the money will totally come in handy. By the way, where are you getting it from anyway? Does Dad know?
April 1983
Dear Mom,
So how’s the seed business going? Are you planting yet, or is it still too cold? I guess with the new greenhouse you can get a jump on the season. I think it’s so cool that you made a business out of it, all on your own. I’m so proud of you!
Thanks again for the money. It’s hard at the end of the semester, making ends meet. Anyway, you won’t have to worry about me for a while. It looks like I’m getting a prize for a paper I wrote. It’s called “The Exiled Self: Fragmentation of Identity in Asian-American Literature.” Pretty heavy, huh? And the best thing is, it comes with a check for a thousand dollars! Isn’t that cool? I wish you could come to graduation.
I’m sorry to hear about Mrs. Unger. She was nice, even if her husband was a creep. When you wrote that he died, I was glad because finally she could be free of him, but maybe she just got hooked on all that abuse and couldn’t live without it. I’m glad Cassie married a nice man and got out of there. She never did write me, but if you see her, tell her I said hi.
Are you sure you can’t come to the graduation? No, I know you can’t. But, I’m thinking maybe I should try writing to Daddy myself.
Love, Yumi
April 1983
Dear Dad,
I am writing to tell you that I am graduating from the University of California at Berkeley this year, and I would like to invite you and Mom to the graduation, if you would like to come.
We haven’t seen each other for just over eight years now. This really makes me sad. I know there is a lot we don’t agree upon, but you are my father, and I would like to have a relationship with you again. I know you think what I did was wrong, and I won’t ask you to forgive me, but won’t you even talk to me?
I’m graduating with honors in English and Asian Studies, and I’m also receiving a prize. I’m not bragging. I was just hoping that maybe you would be happy to know. I’m enclosing two round-trip plane tickets for you and Mommy that I bought with my prize money. I hope you’ll come.
I love you, Yumi
May 1983
Momoko and Lloyd,
I hate you.
November 1983
Dear Mom,
Thanks for your letter. It took awhile for it to catch up with me. I moved out of the Berkeley house and got a job writing grants for a professor in Plant Sciences. He says that normally he never would have hired an English major, but he was surprised at how much I knew about agricultural stuff. He says I must have just absorbed it, growing up on a farm. Anyway, I need the job since I’ve decided to go to grad school.
Thanks for the money order. I meant those tickets to be a gift to you and Lloyd, but I can use the money for books.
March 1984
Dear Momoko,
Why do we have such a difficult relationship? Why can’t we just love each other like a normal family? I’m trying to understand why I’m so scared of having kids of my own, and I realized it’s because I’m afraid of screwing them up. My friend thinks it’s important for me to share my feelings about this with you, so that’s what I’m doing.
p.s. please give the enclosed letter to Daddy.
March 1984
Dear Lloyd,
Fuck you.
Yumi
November 1984
Dear Momoko and Lloyd,
I’m writing to tell you that you have a grandson. His name is Phoenix, and he was born on the first day of November. He weighed 9 lbs. 5 oz. at birth. He is a magical baby, and I am overjoyed.
I hope you will find it in your heart to be glad. I know I never do things the way you want me to, and I suppose the first thing you will want to know is if I am married. I am not. And you should also know that Phoenix’s father and I don’t intend to get married. Paul is the Plant Sciences professor I’ve been working for. I’ve known him since he was a grad student, and we lived in the Berkeley house together. He’s the one who got me off the street and off drugs—I never told you much about that year, but it was bad, and I can honestly say that I owe him my life. He’s gay, but we decided to have this child together because, well, that’s what happened, and this is San Francisco, and it just seemed right. (Paul is Japanese, Mom, a sansei. His last name is Yamamoto, and he comes from a long line of gardeners, too.) Anyway, he and I both agree that since normal families are so screwed up and dysfunctional, we might as well try to have an abnormal one. He’s smart and kind and handsome. He’ll be a wonderful and nonjudgmental father.
December 1985
Dear Momoko,
Thanks for the letter. It finally caught up to me here in Portland. Paul and I decided to get married after all. He got a job at the University of Oregon, and I came here to be with him. I’m back in school, working on my master’s and teaching part-time. Rents are a lot cheaper than in Berkeley, but it rains a lot. Phoenix is one now, and he is so beautiful. I wish you could see him.
December 1987
Dear Mom,
You didn’t tell me that Lloyd had a second heart attack in ’83. Is that why you didn’t come to my graduation? You don’t have to answer that. It doesn’t matter. Anyway, I’m glad that he was okay. He sure is lucky, isn’t he? You don’t have to answer that either.
Phoenix is doing great. He’s three now, and I’ve got him in preschool, which hopefully will give me a chance to finish my master’s thesis. It’s called “Fading Blossoms, Falling Leaves: Visions of Transience and Instability in the Literature of the Asian-American Diaspora.” Basically, it’s about the way images of nature are used as metaphors for cultural dissolution.
Are you still doing the garden and selling seeds? My love of plants is purely poetic, and Paul thinks it’s funny the way I kill anything I actually try to grow. His interest is purely scientific, so we balance each other out. He’s doing well, by the way. He got a job offer in the plant-breeding program at the U of Texas, so we may have to move to Dallas. Yuck.
May 1989
Dear Mom,
Well, it’s final. I got my master’s, and Paul and I are getting a divorce. I guess I should have seen it coming. The good news is that he’s finally getting tenure, so he can pay child support. I’ll need it—the pay scale for the kind of adjunct teaching gigs I can get is for shit. Anyway, I’m sick of Texas, and I’m thinking of moving someplace with a larger Asian presence, so Phoenix doesn’t have to grow up twisted. I think I may have a chance at a teaching fellowship at the University of Hawaii, where I could work on my Ph.D. Wouldn’t that be exotic?
August 1992
Dear Momoko and Lloyd,
I’m writing to tell you of the birth of your first granddaughter, Ocean Eugenia, born on June 21—a summer-solstice child. I’m sending you a picture. She has Fuller eyes. I’m living in Honolulu now. Phoenix and I are living with Ocean’s father in a great house on the beach. He runs a surf shop. I’m still working on my degree and teaching, but it’s more laid back here, and maybe I’ve got a better attitude. Paul used to say that adjunct teaching was like any economy of scale, and you just have to treat it like farming potatoes—standardize your product, increase your volume, work the margins, and make sure your courses are cosmetically flawless. Whatever. It’s really so beautiful here, and as long as the kids are happy, it’s okay for now.
Aloha,
Yumi
February 1997
Dear Momoko and Lloyd,
Well, I haven’t heard from you for a really long time, so here’s the news: Whether you like it or not, you have a new grandson. If you want to know his name, you can write and ask me.
Yumi
P.S. This is the last one you are going to get.
&
nbsp; December 3, 1998
Dear Cassie,
Wow. Is this really you? I got your e-mail and then your letter. Thank you for telling me about Lloyd and Momoko. I’ve been wondering what’s been going on with them, and this explains why she stopped writing. I hope they’re still okay?
Anyway, I went back and forth about your suggestion—I have some pretty complex feelings about my parents, as you can imagine—but I’ve decided I should see them. I can take a month off during winter break, so I’ll be arriving in Pocatello before Christmas. I’ll e-mail you with the date and times. Do you think you could pick me up at the airport?
It will be interesting to see each other, don’t you think? After all these years?
second
And the earth brought forth grass, and herb yielding seed after his kind . . .
—Genesis 1:12
frank
It was the first of December, and a cold wind blew off Erie. Frank pushed his skateboard into the wind, cursing it dispassionately, almost by rote so that the curses marked the rhythm of his momentum, driving him forward. Fuckin’ wind—, fuckin’ wind—, and on the fuck his foot hit the ground, and on the in’ it kicked off and came back onto the board, and he was able to glide for the duration of the wind, sometimes drawing the word out longer when he hit a rare patch of smooth asphalt, clear of potholes and gravel. The frontage road was for shit, but at four-thirty in the morning, riding his skateboard under the hazy orange glow of the road lights, Frank had the whole place to himself, and the wind was freedom.
Over beyond on the highway, the big semis careened past with a whine that sounded like missile fire, and who could blame them for not stopping in this shithole suburb of Ashtabula? Like, how could you even have a suburb of nothing? Even his McDonald’s wasn’t twenty-four hours.
Mist from the lake dulled the golden arches. Frank ollied up on the curb, then, just for practice, he jumped and ground out against the cement pylon that supported the sign, flipping the board and coming down hard. The board got away from him. He caught it and tried again, making the landing this time. It was going to be a great day. When he rounded the corner to the service entrance, he stopped short, slamming his foot into the ground.
Something was parked way back in the lot, over by the Dumpster. It was centered in the circle of light from the security lamp, but shrouded in mist. Frank skated in closer. It had the unmistakable shape of a Winnebago, boxy and inelegant, but the body of the vehicle was covered with pop-riveted patches of tin and aluminum, like scales, while its roof had been shingled with some sort of dark, rectangular paneling. A conning tower rose from the roof. It looked like a robotic armadillo, a road-warrior tank, a huge armored beetle—it was the most radical thing Frank Perdue had ever seen.
He veered around to the front. The conning tower clocked around to follow him.
“Hey!” he called out, getting ready to fly.
A door on the side of the vehicle creaked opened, and a figure emerged. He was skinny, wearing army-surplus pants and a ragged sweater with a knitted vest on top. His dirty blond hair was matted into finger-thick dreadlocks that hung down the middle of his back. His ears were pierced with a cluster of silver earrings. Frank relaxed. The guy wasn’t old. Not a kid. Maybe in his twenties.
“Hey,” the guy said. “Peace.”
Frank shrugged. Hippie retard.
“You work here?”
Frankie shrugged again.
The guy looked around, stomping his feet to keep them warm and blowing into his cupped hands. His gloves were missing all the fingertips. His breath turned the air into clouds. “I’m Y,” he offered.
But Frankie heard “I’m why?” and he couldn’t answer that.
“Y,” the guy repeated. “Y’s my name.”
Frankie shoved his hands in his pockets. Why’s his name what?
“You know,” the guy persisted. “Y. Like the letter. Like the chromosome. What’s your name?”
“Frank Perdue.” He heard the words of his name come out of his mouth.
“Frank Perdue! You mean like the chicken dude?”
Here we go, Frank thought, gritting his teeth. It usually ended in a fight.
But the creep wasn’t laughing. “Way cool. You his kid or something?”
“No way,” Frank said. “My parents are dead. No relation to the chickens.”
Y nodded. “Too bad. That guy’s a rich motherfucker.” His eyes narrowed, and he seemed about to say something more, but then he stopped. “Sorry about your parents. So you work here or what?”
“I’m the janitor.”
“Awesome. We’ve been waiting for you.”
He pounded on the side of the vehicle. The door opened again, and another guy stepped out. He must have just gotten up, because he was digging his fingers around in his eye sockets behind his glasses. The thick lenses bobbed up and down. A woman followed, wrapped in a long printed skirt and bundled like the others in layers of sweaters. She had wavy brown hair and a silver ring through her nose. “Hey,” she said, smiling.
“Well?” the guy with the glasses asked. “Have we reached an agreement?”
Y shook his head. The guy looked at Frank. “We want your oil.”
“Huh?”
“Your french-fry oil. The old stuff from the deep fryer that you throw away.”
“What for?”
“It’s our fuel, dude. Biodiesel. We run off it.” The guy turned to the vehicle and raised his arm like a used-car salesman in a lot full of cream puffs. “This,” he said, beaming, “is the Spudnik!” He lumbered down the steps and stood next to Frank. “It’s a common diesel engine, modified to run on vegetable oil. Quite elegant, if I do say so myself. Fuel’s free. She gets twenty-one miles to the gallon on the highway, and on the interstates of America you’re never too far from a fuel source. Seems to prefer Mc-Donald’s to KFC, but she’ll run on just about anything, even Dunkin’ Donuts. Been across the country twice now.”
Frank blew air. “Awesome.”
“You said it.”
The guy held out his hand. Frankie shook it.
“Name’s Geek, by the way. Kind of goes without saying. That’s Lilith. You met Y. What’s your name?”
“Frank,” said Frank.
“Not just Frank,” said Y. “Not just any old Frank. This here’s Frank Perdue, but he’s no relation to the chickens.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Geek. “So, Frank Perdue, how about the oil, then?”
“It doesn’t get changed until tomorrow.”
Geek looked at Y, who cocked his head toward the door. Lilith banged on the side of the vehicle. “Char, le rat, s’il tu plaît!”
A matted head poked out, covered with wild black hair that looked like it had been chopped with a hacksaw. Chunks of it curtained a small, pointed face. Dark brows. Large, animal eyes, liquid and quick. Looked to be about twelve or thirteen years old, Frank figured. Spooky.
“This is Char,” said Lilith.
The kid peeled open the seal on a plastic freezer bag and pulled out something fur covered and dead.
“Voilà.”
It swung back and forth from a stiffened tail. Frank watched it, transfixed. He didn’t get it.
“C’est un rat.”
“We’ll dip it in the oil,” said Lilith. “Then you can show your manager. Say you found it in the fryer.”
Frank got it. “Is it frozen?”
“Yeah, but you can defrost it in the microwave.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“Char sets traps down by the rail yards.”
“Hey, that’s sick,” Frankie said.
The kid smiled shyly.
Frank hesitated now. “We never had a rat in the fryer before.”
“Hey,” Lilith said. “Rodents happen.”
He led them to the service entrance, unlocked the door, and flicked on the overhead fluorescents. The four of them filed in after him, carrying empty metal drums. Illuminated against the white tile, they looke
d mangy and sly. Frankie eyed them as he stashed his skateboard in the corner. He looked at the mud on the floor, dislodged from the deeply treaded soles of their combat boots, and he wondered if they were going to freak out and rob him and tie him up and stick him in the freezer, and if they did, would the police be able to trace them from the footprints? He’d heard about cults. Even hippie retards could lose it. They headed straight for the kitchen.
“Hey,” Frank called after them. “Just give me a minute, will ya?” He kept his jacket on and put on his cap. If he was going to get locked in the freezer, he wanted to be in uniform. By the time he got to the kitchen, they were draining the fryers. They even knew where the fresh oil was kept.
“You just go about your chores there,” Geek said. “We’ll take care of this.”
The entire operation took less than half an hour. Frank held the door as Y and Geek hauled out three drums of old fry oil. Lilith followed, carrying two industrial-size wheels of toilet paper and a couple stacks of coffee filters. Char sidled up to Frank and handed him the rat in a Big Mac container.
“Char’s already nuked it for you,” said Geek. “Just tell your boss you made an executive decision.”
Frank looked down at the oily rodent, curled in the hamburger container.
“Thanks, Frank Perdue.” Lilith handed the heavy rolls to Char. She rested her hands on Frank’s shoulders, then reached up and kissed him lightly on the mouth. Spinning on her steel-toed combat boot, she waved and floated out the door.
